


Ministry Coffee

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Greg is a teacher, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft owns a café, Rated Explicit for final chapter, background Johnlock, coffee shop AU, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: “Are you hurt?” asks Mycroft.“I – I don’t think so,” mumbles the man indistinctly, in a light Estuary accent. His eyes are glazed, his hands unsteady. He shakes his head. Mycroft can recognise the signs of shock when he sees them.“Here,” says Mycroft, holding out his hand. “Let me just –” he untangles the heavy bag from around the man’s shoulders and puts it on the pavement. The man seems too dazed to take the proffered hand, so he slips it under his elbow instead and gently encourages him to stand. Mycroft pulls the man’s bike up onto the pavement and leans it approximately – as much as the bent front wheel will allow – against the wall. He’s pretty sure no-one’s going to bother stealing it in that state.He picks up the bag, hooking it over his shoulder, and offers his other arm to the man. “Come on.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story took me *hostage* this week. It wouldn't let me sleep properly until I wrote it the hell down, so here it is. It is complete, not a WIP, but I'm still editing the later chapters so will be posting gradually (but quite quickly).
> 
> I know some people aren't so keen on the smut, so just to reiterate from the tags: only the FINAL chapter contains smut. Even though there will be feels, it is basically PWP, so if it's not your thing, the ending of Chapter 4 works perfectly well as the end of the story.  
> Chapter 1 – Rated Gen or Teen  
> Chapter 2 – Rated Teen  
> Chapter 3 – Rated Teen  
> Chapter 4 – Rated Teen  
> Chapter 5 – Explicit. PWP. There is sex. Look at the tags!
> 
> Hopefully this is fair warning! :D
> 
> I really hope you like the story ❤️

The end of the day – wiping down the tables and turning the chairs upside down onto them, hoovering and mopping – is Mycroft Holmes’ favourite part. The simple actions are restorative, every gesture cleanly and efficiently completed.

During the day, Anthea and Molly man the till and deal with the customers. Mycroft busies himself with paperwork for most of the day, but helps out with making coffees during the lunch rush, back safely turned to the customers, in his own little world.

In the evening, though, he handles cleaning up and locking the café for the night alone. He lets his colleagues leave around eight-thirty, and spends the last half-hour before closing time cleaning, leaving the coffee machine until last, just in case someone pops in at two minutes to nine. They rarely do.

He glances at his watch. Quarter past nine, but it’s not dark outside yet. Perhaps there will be time for a short walk this evening, to enjoy some of the unusually balmy weather before bed. Most of the chairs are up already, and the hoover lies ready, the cheerful plastic face painted on its side his only companion. At this time of day, he likes to turn even the music off; after a long day of listening to it, and snatches of strangers’ conversations, he enjoys the silence. Or at least, the muffled sounds, from beyond the café’s door, of a Monday evening in Soho.

There are just a couple more tables to finish. He stretches across the wooden surface in front of him, sweeping crumbs and debris onto the floor to be vacuumed up, then wiping it down with antibacterial. It’s as he straightens up that his eyes catch on the cyclist outside. Mycroft feels the kind of body-shock of instinctive __reaction__ that he had been used to in his previous career, fight-or-flight response slamming through him before he has even consciously registered the scene. There is a white delivery van barrelling down Noel Street, far too fast, above even the thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit. The glancing blow from the side of the van spills the cyclist to the floor, sprawled awkwardly over the kerb, head lolling, limbs flailing. The bike lies tangled and ugly, front wheel bent, handlebars sticking up. The man’s heavy shoulder bag is still across his body. The van careers away without a backward glance.

Mycroft’s gasp sounds weak and ineffectual in the empty shop, the cleaning cloth damp against his palm.

For a moment he cannot move. Illogically, his brain asks, _isn’t anyone going to help him?_ Mycroft glances around, but it seems that no-one else is coming. Guilt for his momentary hesitation flashes through him, and he strides for the door, catching the doorframe for a second to steady himself, bringing under control the trace of a limp that a long day on his feet has exacerbated.

He glances to right and left to check for any more traffic, but nothing is coming. He hurries across the road and bends down, lifting the heavy bag from the man’s side, crouching next to him. The man has begun to sit up, and groans.

“Are you hurt?” asks Mycroft.

“I – I don’t think so,” mumbles the man indistinctly, in a light Estuary accent. His eyes are glazed, his hands unsteady. He shakes his head. Mycroft can recognise the signs of shock when he sees them.

“Here,” says Mycroft, holding out his hand. “Let me just –” he untangles the heavy bag from around the man’s shoulders and puts it on the pavement. The man seems too dazed to take the proffered hand, so he slips it under his elbow instead and gently encourages him to stand. Mycroft pulls the man’s bike up onto the pavement and leans it approximately – as much as the bent front wheel will allow – against the wall. He’s pretty sure no-one’s going to bother stealing it in that state.

He picks up the bag, hooking it over his shoulder, and offers his other arm to the man. “Come on.”

“I –” tries the man, but he allows Mycroft to lead him gently across the road and into the café. Mycroft drops the bag on the table he just cleaned, and pulls out a chair, guiding the man to sit.

He bends down. “What is your name?” he asks, awkwardly.

“Greg. I – Greg Lestrade.” He is much younger than Mycroft had first supposed, his hair prematurely silver. He must be around Mycroft’s age, in reality. Mid thirties, probably. He has – Mycroft takes his hand self-consciously off the man’s elbow – the most beautiful dark brown eyes that Mycroft has seen in a long time, even glazed as they are with shock.

“Greg,” says Mycroft. “Right.” He stands up. “I shall make you a cup of tea.”

“But you’re – you’re closed,” protests Greg weakly, slumped in his chair. Wincing, he opens his bag and pulls out his mobile phone. Mycroft hears a snort of something that sounds like resigned derision behind him, but busies himself with making a mug of very strong Assam. He sets a teaspoon in it, and brings a tray complete with milk and sugar back to the table. He draws up a chair for himself, setting the tea and its accompaniments in front of Greg.

“Sweet tea for a shock, don’t they say?” asks Greg, vaguely, dropping two lumps of sugar into the liquid and stirring it. His hands are still shaking, and Mycroft notices him eye the milk and decide not to bother.

_He is afraid he might spill it,_ he realises. He reaches over and lifts the jug. “Do you take milk?”

Greg nods, shooting Mycroft a grateful glance. “Please.” He uses both hands to bring the mug to his lips, blowing across the surface of the tea, and takes a sip, closing his eyes. “Nice tea,” he says, voice jittery. “Thanks.”

Mycroft glances down at the phone in front of Greg. Ah. So that was likely to have been the cause of his resigned sound before – the screen is cracked from side to side. Fairly cleanly, but still, it will need replacing. His gaze strays to Greg’s bag, still sitting open next to him on the table. The outside of the bag has traces of – yes, chalk on it, most noticeable at the point on the handle where you might pick up the bag to hoist it onto your shoulder. And inside – the bag is full of papers, disarranged now due to the bike accident, but Mycroft can see essays. School essays, in a number of different handwriting styles. A teacher, then. He concentrates on the frontmost paper, the title picked out in immature, rounded handwriting: 1. How is drama created in Act 3, Scene 1 of _Romeo and Juliet?_

English literature. _Interesting._ He flicks his gaze back to Greg, who is still sipping tea with his eyes closed. _Remarkably handsome._ The thought is unwelcome, and Mycroft purses his lips, sits up a little straighter in his chair, glancing nervously away. He wishes he had made himself a cup of tea, too, just for something to do with his hands.

Greg sighs and opens his eyes. They look a little clearer, more alert. He puts the tea down on the table, keeping hold of the mug’s handle. His other hand smoothes down his thigh. “God, thanks so much for this,” he says, voice rather stronger now. “This is damn good tea, and it’s doing wonders.” He gives Mycroft a grateful little smile.

Mycroft nods, awkwardly. “I am glad.”

“D’you run this place –” Greg glances back at him, from where he had been running his eyes over the counter and half-closed café, “– sorry, I – God, that’s rude, I didn’t even ask your name.”

Mycroft clears his throat. “Mycroft Holmes,” he says, lacing his fingers together. It feels too late to offer his hand to shake. “And yes, I run the café.”

Greg smiles at him and holds out his hand. Mycroft grasps it as briefly as he can. “Well, Mycroft, it’s so kind of you to do this, especially when you’re trying to close up for the day. Thank you.”

Mycroft shakes his head, looking out of the window at the man’s mangled bike. “Not at all.”

Greg picks up his tea. “Luckily my phone still works, even if the screen’s completely cracked,” he says, gesturing to it with humourous contempt. “Remind me to buy one of those heavy-duty cases for the next time a van knocks me off my bike.” He sighs. “I haven’t even looked at the damage done to _that_ yet. Is it bad?”

Mycroft hesitates, pressing his lips together, flicking a glance at Greg’s face. “It’s not – well, at least the front wheel will need replacing.”

Greg sighs and rolls his eyes. “Brilliant. Oh well.” He buries his nose in his tea and takes another appreciative gulp. “Nice of the van driver to stop and see if I needed any help, wasn’t it?”

Mycroft gives a wry lift of the eyebrow and small huff of amusement. “Indeed.”

Greg smiles, then shrugs one shoulder. “So many of them are like that. Cycling in London’s a nightmare, although I’ve been really lucky. It’s not happened to me before. Couple of close calls, but never actually come off.”

“Are you hurt?” Mycroft asks again, surprised at his own solicitude. The man has an easygoing manner that makes him much easier to talk to than most strangers.

“Just bruises, I think,” says Greg, shifting in his chair as though assessing his aches and pains. “Although –” he holds out his left arm, turning it for Mycroft’s inspection. His shirtsleeve, rolled to the elbow, is a little tattered, but his arm and elbow are scraped and bleeding. “– Bit of a graze there. Think it hit the kerb,” mutters Greg.

Mycroft winces and stands up abruptly, striding behind the counter to fetch the first aid kit.

“Really, it’s alright,” protests Greg, behind him, but Mycroft wets a pad of kitchen roll and brings everything over to the table. He passes the kitchen roll to Greg, who pushes his shirtsleeve further up and begins cleaning his arm. “Honestly, this can wait until I get home,” says Greg, but Mycroft can tell he’s relieved.

“It is best to clean it,” says Mycroft quietly. “London’s pavements are frequented by plenty of vermin.” He digs in the first aid kit for antiseptic ointment and plasters.

“Like that van driver, you mean?” asks Greg, wincing as he wipes down a rather large graze.

Mycroft smiles drily. “Would you like to use the bathroom?” he asks, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “You should probably wash your hands.”

Greg nods. “Yeah – actually, that would be great,” he says gratefully. Mycroft points him towards the café toilets, and disposes of the damp bloodied kitchen roll.

When Greg returns, it’s obvious that he’s splashed his face as well, and run his hands through his hair to tidy it. He looks more cheerful as he sits back down at the table. Mycroft uncaps the antiseptic ointment and starts unwrapping a plaster.

“Shouldn’t you wear gloves, if you’re going to –” asks Greg. He glances up at Mycroft.

“Well, during work hours I certainly ought to,” responds Mycroft, looking into the first aid kit.

“Sorry – yeah – it’s all the regulations at work –” sighs Greg on a half-laugh. “We get so much training on this stuff. I mean – not that I think I’ve got anything infectious, or you have, but....” He trails off awkwardly.

Mycroft meekly slips on the nitrile gloves and picks up the ointment, dabbing it on with a bit of clean bandage. There are some nasty cuts around Greg’s elbow that require a bit of extra attention, Mycroft gently holding Greg’s shirtsleeve out of the way as he works.

“Where do you work?” he asks, purely as a way to end the awkward silence. He puts plasters over the worst places, and makes sure the rest are thoroughly clean.

“Oh – I’m a teacher – Hackney. A comprehensive there.”

“Ah.” Mycroft fakes polite surprise. “What do you teach?”

“English Literature,” smiles Greg, sounding more at ease. “GCSE and A-Level.”

Mycroft nods. “Very interesting, I imagine.”

Greg gives a half-laugh. “Yeah, that’s one word for it. The kids can be sods, of course, but it’s great really.”

Mycroft purses his lips, unwrapping another plaster. “Standing up in front of a room of children sounds like a nightmare to me.”

Greg smiles. “You must spend all day talking to people, though? Can’t be that different.”

“Ah. I allow my employees to do all the talking,” rejoins Mycroft absently as he dabs ointment into a nasty scrape. “I simply do the paperwork. And sometimes make coffee.”

“Oh right, okay, so you’re the manager.”

Mycroft nods tightly, realising that he has somehow fallen into personal chat with this man. Most unlike him. He sticks on the last plaster and snaps the gloves off, recapping the ointment and packing up the first aid kit with short, efficient movements.

“Right,” says Greg. “I should just – I should probably give my wife a ring, let her know what’s going on. She’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.”

Ah yes, of course. A wife waiting at home. Mycroft tries hard not to ponder exactly _why_ his heart sinks at the words.

Greg stands up and takes his cracked mobile out with him into the street, where he examines the mangled bike as he talks. Mycroft puts the first aid kit away and makes a start on cleaning the coffee machine.

Greg’s brow has clouded over by the time he steps back into the café. Mycroft pauses in his wipe-down of the coffee machine and watches him.

“Um –” Greg hesitates. “This is a huge ask, and no worries if not, but – unfortunately my wife can’t come and get me in the car this evening, and I can’t take the bike on the tube – would it – and please feel free to say no – but would it be possible for me to leave it here until tomorrow?” He scrubs a hand through his silver hair as he says it, shifting awkwardly on his feet.

Mycroft blinks, then nods. “Of course.”

“I’ll come with the car to pick it up tomorrow, and get it out of the way –” says Greg, hurriedly. “Thanks so much, that’s really amazing of you.”

Mycroft shakes his head tersely. “I can put it in the office,” he says.

Greg fetches the bike in, wincing as he lifts it over the threshold with his left arm. Mycroft carries it into the small back office where he spends most of his days doing paperwork, propping it against the wall, the buckled front wheel taking up a fair bit of space.

“Thank you _so_ much,” repeats Greg, when Mycroft reappears at the counter. He has picked up his bag, carried gingerly over his right shoulder. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow – probably – I guess it would be after school hours, if that’s okay?”

Mycroft nods. “Certainly.”

Greg comes forward a couple of steps and holds out his hand again. “Really, Mycroft, you’ve been so kind,” he says warmly, eyes dark in the half-dusk of approaching sunset. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again.” Their hands part and he makes for the door. He gives Mycroft a parting wave through the window as he sets off towards the tube station.

Mycroft sighs, staring after him. _Order more gloves and plasters for the first aid kit,_ he thinks absently. _Note to self._

*

Mycroft spends the majority of the next afternoon making coffees silently, while his colleagues operate the till and wait on the customers. He finds it hard to concentrate on paperwork, wanting to know, to be visible in the café when Greg arrives to fetch the bike. He had been forced to tell Molly and Anthea about the previous evening’s accident, since the bike is rather obviously taking up space in the office, but had omitted all but the barest of details.

It is not until nearly half past eight, though, that Greg arrives at the door of the café. Molly and Anthea are taking off their aprons in readiness to go home, Mycroft having told them – as every day – that he is happy to clean and close up alone.

Molly’s eyebrows rise as Greg opens the door and steps hurriedly inside.

“Mycroft – God, I’m sorry –” he pauses, realising that there are others present. Looking rather disconcerted, he stops near the door. “Oh, sorry. I, um, I’m here to pick up my bike, which you really kindly, er –” he gestures vaguely towards the office.

Molly and Anthea share a look. Mycroft glances sharply at them.

“Molly, Anthea, thank you very much, as always,” he says crisply. “Do enjoy your evenings.”

Molly giggles. They fetch their handbags from the office and head for the door. Deadpan, Anthea gives him a solemn wink on the threshold.

Greg hesitates near the door, ill at ease, and begins to apologise again. “I’m really sorry it’s so late –” both his arms are bruised, and Mycroft is sure there must be other bruises under the white shirt he’s wearing. When he looks up at Greg’s face, though, he gets a shock. His eyes are red and swollen. He looks – frankly, he looks as though he has been crying for hours. Mycroft takes an involuntary half-step closer, but quells the action and presses his hand flat against the countertop. Surely the accident cannot have caused this? Perhaps – hayfever? But no, there had been no evidence of such yesterday, and Greg does not seem to be experiencing the need to sneeze, to blow his nose, or be having trouble breathing. Mycroft frowns, tuning back into Greg’s excuses about a late department meeting and the difficulty of finding somewhere to park in central London.

Mycroft shakes his head. “It is not a problem, Mr Lestrade.”

Greg looks slightly wounded for a moment, then attempts a wan smile. “Greg, please,” he says. “‘Mr Lestrade’ makes me feel like I’m still in my classroom.”

“My apologies. Greg,” says Mycroft, awkwardly. There’s a momentary hesitation. “Please, allow me to fetch your bike.” He turns away, and manhandles the bike out into the central area of the café, unable to wheel it due to the radically mangled front end.

Greg has taken a seat at one of the tall counter stools. “God, I think it’s worse than I remembered,” he says, trying for a strangled version of a cheerful laugh. “Lucky we’ve got a good bike shop near us –” he pauses for a moment, a suddenly desolate expression passing across his face.

The sadness of it shocks Mycroft. He leans the bike against the counter and crosses behind it. “Actually, I was about to have a coffee before cleaning the machine,” he says diffidently. “And there are some custard tarts I shall dispose of unless they are eaten. Would you – since you have been in a long meeting – perhaps you are – would you like a coffee?”

For a moment, Greg stares at him in surprise.

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably on his feet, immediately regretting his hasty words. “You must be very busy –” he murmurs.

“No, actually Mycroft, that would be – that'd be brilliant,” says Greg, voice a little unsteady. With a start, he seems to remember something, and reaches for his pocket. “You have to let me pay, though, for this and for the tea yesterday –”

Mycroft shakes his head, lips a stubborn line. “No. I insist.”

“Please,” says Greg, but Mycroft fixes him with a look. Greg admits defeat with a wan, lopsided smile and a quick exhalation of breath. “That's really nice of you. Thanks.”

Mycroft straightens up behind the counter. “What would you like?”

Greg glances up at the board. “Would you mind making me an iced coffee?” he asks. “I've been boiling all day. Iced latte? Not much sugar?”

Mycroft nods. “Of course.”

“Yeah, can't believe how hot it is,” says Greg half-heartedly, as Mycroft turns his back and starts concocting an iced latte, plus an iced green tea for himself. “Doesn’t feel like London, really. Worst of it is all the kids are probably spending every night messing around in the park instead of revising for their exams.”

“Ah, yes, they must be soon.”

“Couple of weeks for the GCSEs. The A-Levels are a month or so.”

“A busy time for you,” says Mycroft, over the clatter of the coffee machine.

“Yeah,” returns Greg, pensively.

When Mycroft places the large iced latte in front of him, he takes a tentative sip and then a larger gulp.

“Oh, Mycroft, that’s great,” he says, gratefully. The closest to a genuine smile he has yet managed appears on his lips. “Honestly. High point of a shit day. Thank you.”

Mycroft relaxes his posture, just a little, to lean against his side of the counter as he takes a sip of his iced green tea. He hesitates, unsure, but says it anyway. “I am sorry to hear that. Was it – the accident..?”

Greg makes a bitter _ha_ noise that might have denoted amusement if his eyes weren’t so swollen and tired-looking. “Nah,” he murmurs, resting his head on his hand. He looks up, suddenly, brown eyes burning with bitter fire. “D’you really want to know?” His words are bitten-off, angry.

Mycroft retains absolute impassivity. “Certainly,” he says, and he sees Greg’s expression flicker with regret at having spoken so harshly.

“Sorry, sorry Mycroft,” says Greg softly. He lets his head hang in both hands. “Hardly got any sleep. Fact is I – I found out last night my wife’s been cheating on me. Again.”

Mycroft doesn’t make a sound.

“Last time – I really thought things would change, this time,” says Greg, bitterly. “But it’s the same old story. Only this time she chose the PE teacher at our school. The school we both teach at! For fuck’s sake. It’s only a matter of time until the other staff – and the students, Jesus, the students – find out about it. Christ. Fuck.” He covers his eyes with both hands, and there is a silence. “It’s my fault,” he says flatly. “It’s my fault for staying when it was inevitable she’d do it again. But she swore – she _swore_ she’d change.” He buries his face in his palms, and shrugs. “So,” he mutters. “There you go. Really fucking depressing and embarrassing.” He raises his face and gives Mycroft a defiant, ironic glare. “How sorry do you feel for inviting me to stay, and being nice enough to ask about my day now, eh.”

Mycroft explores his feelings and finds, to his own astonishment, that he is not sorry at all. He is way, way beyond the bounds of his conversational comfort zone with almost anyone, let alone with a near-stranger. But he still does not regret hearing about Greg’s day. He tries not to analyse that fact at all. “That is very distressing,” he murmurs. “I am sorry.”

Greg sips his coffee and shrugs. “My fault,” he repeats. “The worst is – the worst is just the upheaval, you know? We’ve been together ten years. All our friends are people we’ve got in common, and –” he sighs. “I suppose we’ll have to move, although fuck knows where I’ll be able to rent on a teacher’s wage.”

“None of that is your fault, Greg,” says Mycroft quietly.

He sighs. “I’m sure I could’ve done better. I know the hours are long as a teacher but – but she’s a teacher too, y’know? If anyone was s’posed to make it I guess we were.” Morosely, he picks up his iced coffee and stares blankly into it. “I should’ve given her what she wanted. Done better.” He seems to recollect where he is and gives Mycroft a humourless half-smile. “Unfortunately, turns out what she really wants is a lot of sex with a PE teacher.”

“Have you considered a change of teaching area?” asks Mycroft drily.

There is a long, silent moment where Greg looks up at him, dark eyes wide, and time seems to slow to approximately one aeon per second. Mycroft regrets his pitch-black sense of humour more thoroughly than he ever has in his life, and opens his mouth to try and rectify his mistake –

Greg gasps, and then _snorts_  with laughter, rushing to put his coffee back down on the counter as he presses both hands to his face. His shoulders start to shake, and for a moment Mycroft worries he’s sobbing, but he mumbles “oh my _God,”_ and his voice is wobbling with mirth. There’s a slightly hysterical edge to it, but still. After a couple of minutes, he wipes his eyes and looks up at Mycroft. “You bastard,” he snorts.

Mycroft can’t suppress a smile. He passes Greg some kitchen roll.

Greg wipes his eyes and coughs a little. “Honestly, you _absolute_  bastard,” says Greg admiringly, grin wide, eyes crinkled.

Mycroft tries to repress his smile, and looks fixedly into his cup as he takes another sip of green tea.

“God. I should probably get home,” says Greg reluctantly. He finishes the last of his iced latte and puts the cup down on the counter. “That was delicious.” Standing up, he hesitates for a moment, then walks over to his bike.

Mycroft comes out from behind the counter to hold the door open for him, and Greg lifts his bike and carries it towards the door.

“Thank you so much, Mycroft,” he says, at the threshold. “I mean it. Really.”

Mycroft nods awkwardly, and murmurs _goodnight_ as he closes the door behind him. He tidies up their cups in a daze, and finishes cleaning the café on autopilot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the lovely encouraging comments! This is not a WIP, so I'm editing and posting daily. As mentioned in the tags and the notes to Chapter 1, the story is rated Teen apart from the final chapter, which will be Explicit (but you can easily treat the end of Chapter 4 as the end of the story if that isn't your thing).

On Wednesday, he is forced to allow his employees to work the day without him, to open and close the café without his attendance. He hardly has time to think, and does not make it home until almost 3am.

*

“Greg came by last night, as we were locking up,” says Anthea, one eyebrow raised. She puts an iced coffee on Mycroft’s desk. “Thought you could use the caffeine,” she adds.

“Thank you,” says Mycroft. It’s sweltering in the little office, and the heat is sending him to sleep. He opened up the café this morning, despite having had only a couple of hours’ rest. He refuses to feed her curiosity by picking up on her other conversational gambit.

“Seemed quite disappointed you weren’t around,” persists Anthea, leaning against the doorframe. “He said he might pop by some other time though.”

“Ah,” says Mycroft.

Anthea rolls her eyes. _“Very_ handsome, isn’t he,” she says, just to provoke him. “He’s turned Molly’s head. She’s referring to him as the Silver Fox.”

“Indeed,” says Mycroft, looking down at the figures in front of him.

“You are impossible,” she tells him, turning to go.

*

It is Friday before he sees Greg again. Busy cleaning the sink, he suppresses a sigh when he hears the café door opening at five to nine. Probably someone wanting coffee. He has not slept properly since Tuesday, and has been looking forward to making dinner, having a glass of wine, and relaxing with a book. He makes his face impassive and straightens up.

“Alright?” asks Greg, smiling at him across the counter. “Hoped you’d be back by now.” He looks less stressed than on Tuesday. He’s obviously changed out of his work clothes, because he’s wearing a pair of grey jeans and a burgundy t-shirt. Mycroft tries not to notice that the colour brings out his golden skin, his silver hair and his brown eyes really very well indeed.

Mycroft peels off his rubber gloves and clears his throat. “It is nice to see you, Greg,” he says. Gesturing to the coffee machine, he asks, “something to drink?”

“That’d be great,” says Greg. “You have to let me pay though. Please.”

“No,” says Mycroft stubbornly. “What would you like?”

“Iced latte, please,” says Greg. “Fine. I’ll put it in tips.”

As Mycroft makes a start on the drinks, Greg steps over to the tip jar, which is actually composed of a small tray with two teacups on it. A little sign says ‘Guess the Weight of the Cake’. One cup is labelled ‘three pounds five ounces’ while the other says ‘four pounds eight and a half ounces’.

Mycroft only turns round when he hears Greg start to laugh.

“Oh, that’s why – _Ministry Coffee,”_ he chuckles. “Very good. The cake looks tasty, too. I wondered if maybe you’d been a vicar or something before this,” he grins. “But now it all makes sense. A Greene fan, eh?” He moves back to his seat at the counter.

Mycroft can feel himself turning red, so he returns to making the coffees. This is the one and only time he has heard someone understand the tip tray’s meaning. “Would you like a slice of cake?” he asks.

“Oh, yes please,” smiles Greg, accepting his iced latte with a nod. “I love fruitcake.”

Mycroft cuts him a generous slice. Greg digs in, with appreciative noises of respect for the cake. Mycroft sips his iced americano, leaning against his side of the counter.

 _“The Ministry of Fear,_  though,” muses Greg. “Maybe you were a spy, then,” he chuckles. Gesturing vaguely around the café, he adds, “before this.”

Mycroft remains impassive. “Hardly,” is his only comment.

“Do you like Le Carré?”

“Yes.”

“Definitely a spy.”

Mycroft permits himself a slightly amused, indulgent half-smile, and a shake of the head. “You managed to take your bicycle for repair?” he enquires.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s with them. They warned me it looks expensive,” says Greg, rolling his eyes. “So that’s good.”

Mycroft lifts the corner of his mouth in laconic acknowledgement. “And –” he hesitates, unsure how to finish his sentence.

Greg gives him a lopsided smile. “A bit better,” he says, taking a sip of coffee.

Mycroft keeps his face under control. _He has forgiven her._

Greg swallows and sighs. “I mean, obviously it’s shit, but I feel better for now, anyway. We’re divorcing. I’m done. Staying at a mate’s for a couple of weeks while I pack stuff up and look into renting somewhere new. Probably some shitty studio room, but whatever.” He shrugs. “’M way too old for houseshares, so I’ll take what I can get.”

Mycroft takes a silent, deep breath.

“So are you alright?” asks Greg, through a mouthful of cake. “When I came by the other evening Molly and Anthea gave me the impression you’d taken the day off unexpectedly.”

Mycroft resists the urge to roll his eyes at their indiscretion. _Molly and Anthea,_ he notes. “Quite well, thank you,” he returns.

“You sure?” Greg watches him with large, dark eyes. “You look a bit…tired.”

Mycroft sighs. His eyes flick to the sign on the door, which is still turned to ‘Open’. He crosses to change it, and locks the door. “Sorry,” he says, gesturing to it. “It’s just – Friday night. I do not want after-hours customers.”

“I should fuck off then,” grins Greg.

“Or stop paying,” counters Mycroft.

Greg chuckles. “Nice try.” He finishes his coffee and fiddles with the spoon. “Listen, Mycroft – dunno about you, but after this week I could really do with a drink. D’you want to go and get one somewhere?”

“Actually I –” Mycroft pauses, fingers pressed into the countertop.

Greg makes an encouraging, enquiring noise.

“Actually I had planned to make dinner and open a bottle of wine in my flat,” says Mycroft tentatively. “You would be welcome to share it.” He looks fixedly at the dregs of his coffee. This is unprecedented. His heart speeds in his chest.

“Great,” says Greg, simply. “I’ll help you close up here first, though.” He pushes his coffee cup across the counter to Mycroft. “Think I still remember how to wipe tables. Pass me the cloth and spray.”

Mycroft’s protests are useless. He tries to stop himself from watching as Greg bends over the first table. Firmly, he turns to the drip tray of the coffee machine, and concentrates on breathing regularly.

*

“See? I told you I was a pretty good cook,” grins Greg, finishing the last of his courgette and chilli pasta, and picking up his glass of white. “Wasn’t bad, was it?”

“Very nice indeed, thank you,” says Mycroft, sipping his wine. It is affecting him a little more than usual, mixing with his tiredness to make him feel pleasantly drowsy and comfortable.

“You look knackered,” says Greg.

“Thank you very much,” says Mycroft, with gentle sarcasm.

Greg chuckles. “No – not like that – just tired. Really tired. What happened on Wednesday?” he asks, and Mycroft is surprised to hear genuine concern in his voice.

The wine loosens his tongue. “My brother,” he says, with a half-shrug of relief at finally saying it out loud. “He has a heroin addiction. I found him at last. And checked him into a rehabilitation facility.”

It had been ugly. Though he was weak, Sherlock fought him physically and with every weapon he had in the arsenal of painful insults families hold about one another. Mycroft allows his thoughts to slide away from the words that had found their way under his defenses. They were, after all, nothing he had not heard before.

“Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry Mycroft,” says Greg, sounding stunned. “I – I didn’t mean to pry –”

Mycroft glances up at him, and pushes his glass towards the wine bottle. Greg pours him another. “You are not prying,” he says flatly, taking a sip. “I chose to tell you.”

“Thank you,” says Greg, and Mycroft thinks that perhaps he understands: Mycroft does not often – ever – _confide._

There’s a silence, during which they both drink.

“So – is he younger than you? Older?” asks Greg. “What’s his name?”

“Sherlock,” says Mycroft, heavily. “Younger. By seven years.”

Greg makes an acknowledging _hmm._ “And your parents…?”

“Must not be involved in this,” returns Mycroft.

“Oh,” says Greg. “Seems like – quite a lot of responsibility for you.”

Mycroft shakes his head, but does not know what to say.

“You said you found him?”

“He disappears. He is good at disappearing, and it takes me a while each time to locate his supply, and by that to track him,” sighs Mycroft.

“So he’s what – twenty-five?” asks Greg, tentatively.

“Twenty-six.”

“God. Not long out of university, really,” says Greg. “How did all this happen?”

“He dropped out.” Mycroft plays the stem of the glass through his long fingers. “Cambridge. Chemistry. A boyfriend who used him and left him addicted.”

“Bloody hell.” Greg sighs. “And the rehab? Think it’ll work?”

“It has not before.”

“And you pay for all this for him?”

Mycroft shrugs. “He is my brother.”

Greg looks around the small flat. Every wall is lined with bookshelves, and nothing is wanting, but it’s not luxurious. “Well you must have a lot of money,” he says, then looks appalled at his own manners. “God, sorry Mycroft,” he adds. “I don’t mean – I just mean, you’re a bit of a mystery. There’s stuff I can’t figure out about you.”

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. “Yes?”

Greg glances around again. “Well, I mean I know it’s central London so it probably costs a bomb, but if you’re able to check your brother into private rehab facilities time and again, you must have a fair bit of money. So I can’t understand why you’d live in a little flat above your café. And I don’t think you can _possibly_ make off the café what you’d need to give him that care. I mean – I’m sure you do alright, but…” he gestures vaguely and takes another gulp of wine. “Come to that, the very fact that __you’re__  running a café. I mean everything about you –” again, he gestures, taking in Mycroft’s whole body. “You’re not like me. I’m comprehensive school, first in my family to go to university, all that. You’re definitely public school, right? Top-notch uni, I’m guessing. Top degree, too. All these books – politics, philosophy, literature. And then – what, manager of a café? No way.”

Mycroft observes him, the animation in his face, the way his strong fingers curl around the wine glass. “A roughly accurate reading,” he says, crisply.

Greg looks at him over the rim of his wine glass. “I’ve not offended you?”

“No.” Mycroft watches Greg bite his lip, and adds, “truly.”

“Alright,” says Greg, cautiously. “I don’t want to. I’m just…” he shrugs. “Intrigued.”

Mycroft looks down at his own restless fingers on the stem of the wine glass. “I assure you, I am very boring.”

“I don’t think you are,” says Greg, quietly. “I think you don’t like talking about yourself much. I think you don’t do it very often. But if you’ve read a fraction of these books, you’re not boring at all.” He shifts a little in his chair, stretching his feet out, crossed at the ankles. “And the other day – you were truly decent, Mycroft. Not just after the accident – you gave me a laugh when I needed it most. That’s important. Really important.”

Mycroft stands, taking their plates to the dishwasher. He rinses his hands afterwards, enjoying the cool water. The night is hot, and the wine is warming him further. “I have not always run the café,” he says quietly. “You are right.”

“Knew you were a spy,” jokes Greg, smiling up at him. “Come and finish the bottle with me.”

*

“Brought that book you were interested in borrowing,” says Greg, sliding it across the counter. Monday, and he is wearing his suit trousers and shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows in the hot weather. Mycroft accepts the volume with thanks.

“How’re you?” asks Greg, picking up the cloth and spray bottle, and waving Mycroft away as he tries to protest. “Oh shut up, I might as well keep busy while I’m here.”

“Quite well, thank you Greg,” says Mycroft, but his tone is subdued.

“You’re not, I can tell,” says Greg briskly. “What’s going on? Something with Sherlock?”

“He is resisting the treatment,” sighs Mycroft, giving in. “Rather forcefully. The rehabilitation facility called me today to let me know. He has no reason or will to change. I –” he presses his lips into a tight line. “In truth, I am unsure what to try next.”

Greg chews his bottom lip thoughtfully. “You said he likes mysteries. Crime investigation and stuff, right? I mean…couldn't he join the police or something?”

“I fear his history as a drug user would make that unlikely,” sighs Mycroft. “As would his pathological inability to obey authority.”

Greg snorts. “Right, okay. Private detective?”

Mycroft puts his head on one side. “It is certainly not a bad idea, although how Sherlock could be persuaded that it was a viable option long enough to keep clean, I do not know.”

Sighing, Greg nods. “Yeah. God, this is shit for you Mycroft. I'm sorry.”

Mycroft grips the cloth he is holding rather more tightly than necessary. “It is simply that – if he disappears again –”

“No, listen.” Greg looks up, eyes lit with enthusiasm. “I'm meeting up with a mate for a drink on Wednesday night. A mate from the Army. He's been invalided out but he's a doctor, and I know he's worked with the police a fair bit. Think he has a few mates working there. I'll ask him for ideas. See what he thinks.”

Mycroft cannot see that this will provide too much help, but he is grateful for the gesture. “Thank you,” he murmurs. Then, “the Army? I did not know.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Greg dismissively. “I was in the TA and did my two tours in Afghanistan. That's where I met John. The second one, that is. By all accounts his shoulder’s completely done in. Can't imagine what he's going to do next. He used to be a surgeon.”

They work quietly, and share a coffee before Greg goes home. “You should give me your mobile number,” he says casually before he leaves. “Then I can text you about what John says.”

He turns back at the door. “It’s only the first week of Sherlock’s treatment, anyway. Things could change.”

*

[12:32] ****Hi Mycroft, Greg here. Hope your week’s going well. Met up with John last night – interesting talk. Got a flat viewing tonight but I wondered if you want to meet up tomorrow night to talk about it? I can bring a bottle of wine? G****

[14:23] ****Certainly. I shall cook dinner. I should have finished locking up by 10pm. MH****

[15:01] ****Great. See you tomorrow! G x****

[20:05] ****White or red? G x****

[22:06] ****White. MH****

*

In fact, Greg turns up at the café at nine, and immediately grabs the cloth and spray to start wiping down the tables. Mycroft objects, but Greg just laughs. “Quicker if we both get on with it. I’m starving.”

“You already have a job,” protests Mycroft, tying up the bin bags.

He follows Greg’s progress around the room, hoovering beneath each table as the chairs go up. Once the coffee machine is cleaned, its component parts drying by the sink, he takes off his apron and collects his phone from the office. They lock up and walk the very few steps to Mycroft’s flat door, Greg carrying a bottle of wine.

“I’ll put this in the fridge for a few minutes,” he says. “Anything I can do?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I shall just change,” he says quietly. “And then prepare dinner.” He motions to the sofa. “Please.”

Greg smiles and crosses to the bookshelves. “Alright.”

Changing his trousers and shirt, Mycroft stands tall in the mirror and gives himself a supercilious look, grey eyes cold. Half-shaking his head, he turns away.

Back in the kitchen, Mycroft takes out the salmon fillets, which have been marinating in soy and chilli sauce since the morning.

Greg immediately joins him, leaning against the counter. “What’re we having?”

“Soy-glazed salmon, noodles and spicy salad.”

“Mmm, sounds great,” says Greg. “Can I help?”

“There is nothing to do, really,” murmurs Mycroft. “I prepared the salad this morning, and the salmon fillets will need just a few minutes in the pan.” He sets the kettle boiling, then reaches down a frying pan and starts to heat a drizzle of oil.

“You must’ve got up really early.”

“I wake early. Especially in summer, when it is light.”

“Ugh, you’re lucky. Half the time I’m dragging myself out of bed just in time for morning registration.”

“You are a form tutor?”

“Yeah, yeah – Year Eight. They’re sweet really, but sometimes at eight-thirty in the morning I just want to murder the little bastards.”

Mycroft can’t help a small smile. He dips his head, lifting the salmon fillets into the frying pan, skin down. The kettle clicks off, boiling.

“This is for the noodles, yeah?” asks Greg, pulling another saucepan down onto the hob, and holding the kettle over it.

“Yes, but stop helping –”

Greg chuckles and fills the saucepan with water. “I feel useless though.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Pour out the wine,” he says, mock-exasperatedly. “Glasses are in that cupboard.”

“That I can do,” grins Greg, as Mycroft places a couple of nests of noodles into the boiling saucepan.

The glug of two glasses of wine being poured sounds behind Mycroft, and Greg opens the fridge again to put the bottle away. “This the salad, yeah?” he motions to a Tupperware on the bottom shelf.

“Yes. But Greg –”

“Alright! Alright. I’m sorry,” Greg laughs. He carries over the two glasses and passes one to Mycroft, then touches the rims together. “Cheers.” He drinks.

“How was your flat viewing?” asks Mycroft as he drains the noodles and takes the salmon off the heat.

“I mean – it was okay, but it’s fucking ridiculous how much you have to pay to get even a studio hovel in this city,” groans Greg. “Still. Nearer work, which is good I guess. Haven’t a hundred percent decided if I’m going to take that one or not yet. I’ve got a couple more viewings tomorrow.”

Mycroft puts everything onto two plates, and passes one to Greg.

“Looks amazing,” says Greg, taking a seat at the table and picking up his cutlery. “Don’t know how you can hold out this long until dinner every night.”

Mycroft half-shrugs and takes a sip of wine. “You mentioned that you had seen your friend from the Army.”

Greg glances at him, eyes sympathetic. “Yeah. Yeah. So – well, it turns out he’s going to be a Force Medical Examiner. He’s got contacts in the Met, and they recommended him. And he mentioned that he’s got another mate from the Army who’s set up as a private detective, who might even need a partner before too long, because his business is growing fast.”

Mycroft purses his lips. “I doubt that –”

Greg waves a hand. “Yeah – I mean, from what you’ve said it's hard to imagine Sherlock as that kind of private detective. I think it involves a lot of really dull surveillance for divorce cases and stuff. But can’t you – couldn’t you persuade him that _something_ like that would be worth staying clean for?” He takes a mouthful of salmon and makes an appreciative _mmmm_  noise.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and exhales.

Greg nods, seeming to understand. He tips his head to one side. “If you can afford to support him. Right.”

“It would hardly be more costly, I am sure.”

“Wait – you’ve been giving him money this whole time?”

Mycroft hears the unspoken judgement in the question and stares down at his plate. “Drug addicts do not stop taking drugs simply because they have no money,” he says quietly. “And the alternatives are –” his throat feels tight, and he blinks rapidly, hating his own weakness.

Mycroft almost jumps when Greg squeezes his arm. “God – Mycroft – I didn’t mean you’re wrong or anything. I’m just –” he lets out a frustrated sigh. “You’re a good brother.”

Mycroft shakes his head, turning his fork over and over between his fingers. “Most of the time he simply refuses to use the money.”

“That’s not your fault,” says Greg, gently. He shifts on his chair. Mycroft does not make eye contact. “Well I have to admit I’m worried about John, too,” adds Greg, changing the subject. “I mean, I know he got shot, but he seems…off. I dunno.” He takes a gulp of wine. “Need to make sure I ask him out to the pub now and then. Not sure looking at loads of dead bodies for the police is going to be the best thing for him.”

Mycroft makes a considering noise into his glass of wine. “Leaving the Army must be difficult.”

“Yeah, seen a few mates have a bad time with it,” says Greg casually. “Messes with your head, leaving that kind of system where every moment of your day is mapped out for you. There’re a lot of rules, in the Army. Being without them can be hard.”

Mycroft raises his eyes quickly to Greg’s. “And for you?”

“Oh, well – TA – that was a bit different really,” says Greg, shrugging. “And coming back from tours – I met my wife not long after, so. In teacher training. Bit of a whirlwind thing.” His mouth quirks, just a faint trace of bitterness. He takes another couple of gulps of wine.

Mycroft remains silent, winding noodles slowly round his fork.

“I’m sorry,” says Greg. “Listen to me being a depressing old git,” he chuckles a bit. “You know what’s funny? I feel shit about all this, but I realised the other night. After she did this the last time, I think I just kind of…separated myself off from it. From her, actually, too. Which did make it inevitable she’d do it again. And it’s not like it’s all my fault – she had a choice – but it wasn’t fair on her. Or me. It’s better this way.”

Mycroft looks up, watching him obliquely. Greg looks sincere.

“Thank fuck we don’t have kids, anyway,” says Greg. “I wanted them, but Christ, it makes this easier.” He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “God, I’m sorry Mycroft.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No, please.”

“That was delicious,” says Greg, putting his knife and fork together. “I’ll wash up.”

“I have a dishwasher,” says Mycroft, taking both their plates and rinsing them at the sink. “There is no need.”

“You have to let me help sometimes.”

“You cooked dinner last week. And helped me clean the café this evening.”

“You’re impossible.”

“So Anthea tells me.”

“There you go then. It’s half eleven. Want me to piss off?”

“There is not much wine left. We should finish it.”

“Great.”

*

Sunday afternoon, and Mycroft is finally able to turn the café sign to ‘Closed’. He sighs and looks around, assessing the scale of the clean-up to be done. First thing: throw away the food and clean out the fridge and display cabinet. He takes a step towards it, then jumps as there’s a rap at the glass door behind him.

“Greg.”

“Alright?” Greg smiles. “Okay if we come in for a minute?”

Mycroft holds the door open, eyeing the stranger cautiously.

“I know you’ll be trying to close for the day,” says Greg, “so we’re just popping by. Mycroft, this is John Watson, John this is Mycroft Holmes.”

The man is much shorter than Mycroft, with light brownish blonde hair. Probably around Mycroft’s age. He is tanned, muscled and using a cane, which he forgets he needs when Mycroft holds out his hand to shake. _Psychosomatic limp. Interesting._  His left shoulder he holds stiffly, indicating the site of his actual wound. There is a slightly pugnacious lift to his chin, and his eyes are wary. Greg is right to be worried about him. He has not eaten today, and there are traces of gun oil under his fingernails which surely should not still be there, given that he must have spent some weeks, if not months, in military hospital.

“Mycroft’s a –” there’s a momentary hesitation. “The guy who helped me after that bike accident. I told you about it.”

Mycroft notes Greg’s hesitation. _Not a ‘mate’. Not to Greg, who seems to have hundreds of these unspecific ‘mates’. But I do not qualify, naturally. Perhaps because we have known one another for such a short time._  Mycroft drops his gaze to the floor.

“Yeah, well, good to know someone’s got the sense they were born with,” says John drily. “Cycling in central London, Lestrade.”

“Piss off,” grins Greg. He turns back to Mycroft. “John and I are catching up. Thought I should show him where to get a good coffee.”

“You have arrived just in time,” says Mycroft, with a sidelong glance at John. “I am cleaning for the week ahead and was about to clear out the food cabinet.” He looks up at Greg. “There is some more fruitcake, if you would like it.”

“Amazing,” grins Greg. “Can I have an iced latte as well?”

“Naturally.”

Greg shoves a ten-pound note into the tips jar and takes a seat at one of the tables. _Ah yes, Dr Watson’s leg. The high stools would be unsuitable._  “That is too much, Greg.”

“Shush, Mycroft.”

“What would you like to eat and drink, Dr Watson?”

“John, please.” There’s a pause while John looks at the display cabinet. “And you’re just throwing this away?”

“Yes, I must for food hygiene reasons. Not because the food is off, or even out of date, but due to FSA regulations. Anything you eat will simply be reducing wastage. Not to mention the fact that Greg has just paid enough for you to eat everything,” says Mycroft, raising his voice a little over the coffee machine for Greg’s benefit.

John plumps for a sandwich, a slice of chocolate cake and an iced americano. Mycroft brings over their drinks and food.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” says John, through a ravenous bite of sandwich.

Mycroft acknowledges the comment with a small smile, and is about to turn away when Greg looks up at him, surprised.

“You not having anything to drink, Mycroft?”

“I –” Mycroft hesitates. He had not assumed that his presence was necessary. He blinks a couple of times. “I shall make it,” he adds quietly.

When he joins them at the table, John allows his eyes to slide from Greg to Mycroft with a tiny amused quirk to the edge of his mouth. Mycroft wonders what is entertaining him.

“I was sorry to hear about your brother,” says John, with an almost-defiant lift of the chin. _Determined to address the elephant in the room,_ thinks Mycroft.

Mycroft shakes his head. “Thank you for the benefit of your advice on the matter,” he returns quietly.

“I reckon you ought to get him to start as a private detective,” says Greg thoughtfully. “Try it out, at least. Get him to start the business online before he leaves rehab. He’ll probably get mostly nutters to start with but maybe something interesting’ll come up. Keep him intrigued enough to stay sober.”

John nods. “My friend said all it took was a couple of successes and word-of-mouth business really started taking off.”

Mycroft stares down at his own fingers curled around the cold glass of coffee. “Certainly a sensible idea,” he murmurs. “I shall try my best.” _The problem is, any idea that comes from me, Sherlock is likely to reject out of hand before trying it._ “Where are you living?” he asks, trying to change the subject.

“Over near St James’ Park,” says John, jaw tight. “For now, anyway. Army-supported place. Not for much longer.”

Greg grins. “We were talking about maybe trying to rent somewhere together.” He looks over to Mycroft. “The viewings yesterday were awful. One of them actually had a toilet next to the bed.”

John snorts into his coffee.

“Not even at the bottom of the bed,” laughs Greg. “It was next to the pillow.”

Mycroft can’t help smiling at him.

“The other one was worse. Shared bathroom, and it looked like I’d be sharing it with a yeti, there was so much hair in the bath.”

“Urgh,” says John, finishing a mouthful of chocolate cake. “Let’s start looking together. Surely we can afford somewhere a bit better than that.”

“Ha, dunno mate,” sighs Greg. “We might have to share a bed.”

“Piss off, old man.”

“You might be a doctor and a soldier but you’re still a cheeky little shit.”

Mycroft brushes a piece of non-existent fluff off his trouser leg and makes eye-contact with no-one. When he does raise his eyes again, John is looking at him with poorly-disguised amusement.

“When does your new job start again?” asks Greg, through a mouthful of fruitcake.

“Not this Monday, the one after,” says John. “God, your memory really is going in your old age, isn’t it?”

“Look what I put up with in the name of friendship,” says Greg long-sufferingly to Mycroft. “Imagine spending the day with cheeky little teenagers and coming home to this too.”

Mycroft gives a tight little smile and takes a sip of iced coffee. _At least it will mean Dr Watson is not left alone with his empty fridge, his psychosomatic limp and the gun he smuggled out of the Army._

“Ugh, talking of cheeky little teenagers,” groans Greg, “The next few weeks are gonna be made up of lessons with increasingly stressed A-Level students and the unbearable boredom of exam invigilation, so nobody expect me to be anything other than a depressing, moany fucker during this time.”

“Oh, absolutely no change then,” says John calmly, while Greg grins and puts up his middle finger.

“Good thing you’re a bloody war hero, or I’d punch you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever Lestrade. I’ve not forgotten beating you at boxing.”

“Once! I won against you plenty of times.”

Mycroft blinks to get _that_ particular mental image out of his head as fast as possible, and brushes more imaginary lint off his knee.

“Anyway,” adds John, “don’t be such a miserable git. You get a massive holiday soon.”

“It goes faster than you think,” grumbles Greg, but grins as John rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright.” He glances at Mycroft. “We should probably bugger off and let you get on with locking up,” he says, smiling gently.

Their eyes lock and Mycroft finds himself briefly unable to look away. After a moment, he blinks, and concentrates on finishing his coffee.

Greg piles all the debris onto a tray, and Mycroft has to take it from him in order to stop him doing any more. Greg grins as Mycroft gives him a stern look.

“Thank you for the coffee,” says John at the door. “Nice to meet you.”

“See you Mycroft,” smiles Greg. “You relax this evening, yeah?”

*

[22:04] ****Hi Mycroft. Thanks for the coffee and cake earlier. Hope cleaning and locking up didn’t take too long and you’ve spent a bit of this evening chilling out. You didn’t mind me bringing John by? G x****

Mycroft rolls onto his back and surveys the ‘x’ with confusion and disfavour. He can only assume it is a habit on Greg’s part, since it appears in most of his text messages.

[22:06] ****Not at all. MH****

[22:07] ****Is that ‘not at all’ you didn’t mind, or ‘not at all’ you didn’t relax? G x****

[22:09] ****I did not mind. MH****

[22:10] ****Busy day tomorrow? G x****

[22:12:] ****Just normal. And you? MH****

[22:13] ****Invigilating a GCSE exam. The usual amount of awful I expect. Last year there was a student who sneezed so hard into his exam paper we had to replace it, and there’s a whole faff you have to go through with serial numbers etc. so we had to pause the entire exam. And one of them always throws up. G x****

[22:15] ****Thank you so much for that mental image, Gregory. I am attempting to sleep. MH****

[22:16] ****Gregory? :) G x****

Mycroft pauses, unsure how to reply.

[22:19] ****My apologies. Greg. MH****

[22:20] ****You can call me Gregory if you want :) Sleep well. G xx****

Mycroft stares at the damned kisses for a long time. When he puts his phone back down on the bedside table, he cannot sleep for nearly an hour.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm *so* pleased you guys are enjoying the story! Thank you for your lovely comments ❤️
> 
> As mentioned in the tags and the notes previously, the story is rated Teen apart from the final chapter, which will be Explicit (but you can easily treat the end of Chapter 4 as the end of the story if that isn't your thing).

The first visitation day at the rehabilitation facility comes up on Thursday. The staff always inform at short notice, so Mycroft again has to rely on Molly and Anthea’s willingness to cover him at the café. Sherlock is thin – though not as emaciated as he had been when Mycroft last saw him – and very pale. His eyes, blue today, snap cold, angry fire from beneath an unruly mop of curls.

“Please, Sherlock. I am willing to help you, to fund you in the endeavour. You are welcome to stay with me, or I can look into renting you a flat –”

“Mycroft. I have made it clear to you repeatedly that the only thing I want from you is your absolute and enduring absence.”

“Sherlock. This would be a chance. An opportunity to do something that interests you and to –” he pulls up short, not trusting his voice. He takes a deep breath. “If you pursue the path you have chosen, it will no longer be addiction, but suicide.” He has never put it so baldly before. It takes everything he has to remain still and calm as he speaks.

Sherlock explodes out of his chair, crossing to the window of the private room. His hands tangle in his wild hair, tugging furiously at the curls. “And wouldn’t that be a huge fucking relief for every single one of us?” he cries, wildly.

Mycroft restrains himself from jumping up, but he cannot stop his voice getting a little louder. “No, Sherlock –”

Suddenly, Sherlock is close to him, in his face, furious. “Come on Mycroft. Why. Why the _fuck_ should I live? For you? For Mummy and Father? Because it’s more _fucking_ convenient to you that I live than die?”

Mycroft quells the urge to recoil, and tries to keep his voice flat. “Because you are extraordinary, Sherlock. Because you have talents that no-one else has. Because you could use those for good, for others’ good and your own –”

“Oh, yes,” cries Sherlock, throwing out his arms. “Mycroft Holmes’ wondrous world, in which people have to be _extraordinary_ in order to deserve life. O happy world!”

“Sherlock, please, I have never espoused that view –”

“Well you have lived it,” hisses Sherlock. “And you have forced me to live it.” His eyes are venomous slits, darkly shadowed.

Mycroft cannot take it. “Then I have been _wrong,”_ he shouts desperately. There is a silence. “I have been wrong to make you feel that,” he adds, more quietly.

Sherlock simply blinks at him, and his incomprehension, his shock, make Mycroft’s blood run cold. _Have I truly never said that to him before?_

The few remaining minutes of the visit are subdued, but Sherlock says that he will think about starting a website devoted to private detection, and Mycroft knows that means he will do it.

On the train back to London, his relief and leftover adrenaline prompt him to text Greg.

[17:03] **I saw Sherlock today. He is willing to try a private detection website. It was a good idea. Thank you. MH**

His phone buzzes in his hand.

[17:04] **That’s brilliant! Really glad. Deserves a celebration! Do you fancy meeting up tomorrow evening? Feel bad I keep coming to yours. We could go out for dinner somewhere if you like? G x**

[17:06] **My apologies Gregory, but my job is rather antisocial. By the time I have locked up, most places will not be serving food. Might my flat be acceptable again? MH**

[17:07] **Of course! I’ll cook though, and bring the ingredients. G x**

[17:08] **I shall buy wine. White or red? MH**

[17:09] **Hang on, haven’t decided what I’m cooking yet! I’ll let you know in a bit. G x**

[18:01] **Red please. G x**

[18:02] **Actually, I should probably check. Do you like curry? And are you allergic to anything? G x**

[18:04] **Red it is. Yes, and no. MH**

[18:05] **Great. Look forward to seeing you tomorrow :) G xx**

*

“Alright Mycroft?” Mycroft looks up from mopping the floor. Greg is wearing his grey jeans and a dark navy shirt, untucked and open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

Mycroft swallows and nods. “Good evening, Gregory.”

Greg smiles. “Lend me your flat keys? I’ll go and get started on dinner while you do this.”

Mycroft hands them over. “The wine is on the side. Perhaps you could open it now, so that it can breathe?”

“Cool. Will do. See you in a bit.”

Mycroft tries to be as punctilious about all his tasks as usual, but manages to make it up to the flat by just past nine-thirty.

“Shall I pour the wine?” asks Greg from the kitchen as Mycroft shuts the front door.

“Yes please. I shall just change.”

It is as Mycroft is tucking in his shirt that his phone vibrates on the bedside table. The only thing in the email from Sherlock is a single URL: www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk.

Mycroft pockets his phone and picks up his laptop. In the kitchen, he sits at the table and opens his laptop, types in the URL. “My brother has sent me a link to what I assume is his new venture,” he says to Greg.

Greg, who seems to have taken his shoes off, pads over and passes him a glass of wine. They clink glasses, and Greg leans over Mycroft’s shoulder to read the website. He is very close. Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment, registering the warmth of Greg’s body, the slightly spicy scent of his cologne.

“‘Consulting detective open for business’,” reads Greg. Mycroft’s eyes snap open. “‘My nosy and corpulent brother has ‘suggested’ that I should advertise for business as a consulting detective, instead of taking copious amounts of heroin intravenously’ – um, Mycroft –”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Sorry to say it, Mycroft, but I don’t think your brother and I are going to get on,” says Greg, jaw tight. “What the bloody hell is that? ‘Nosy and corpulent’?”

Mycroft can feel himself turning red. “It is nothing. His standard attitude towards me.” He waves a hand, and takes a gulp of wine.

“Yeah, well, I think that’s a bit bloody ridiculous coming from someone –” Greg pauses and takes a deep breath. Mycroft has to fight against closing his eyes again when he feels hot breath against his cheek. “He’s clearly bloody blind, for starters,” adds Greg, with an attempt at humour obviously spoken through gritted teeth. “Or insane,” he adds, under his breath.

Mycroft does not move. He tries to breathe quietly.

“There are already a couple of comments,” says Greg, reaching round Mycroft to use the trackpad. “‘Theimprobableone’ with a maths mystery, and someone wanting him to find their missing dog.” He sighs. “Well, we did say he’d probably just get nutters to start with.”

Mycroft gives a brief half-smile. “At least he has done something suggesting that he plans to live beyond the next month,” he murmurs quietly.

There’s a pause, and then Greg straightens up and squeezes his shoulder gently. “Yeah.”

Mycroft closes the laptop. “What are we having for dinner?”

“Oh, crap, yeah, the chicken –” Greg darts back to the cooker, and takes a large saucepan off the heat. “Butter chicken, rice and kale. Hope that’s okay.”

“It sounds delicious.” Mycroft puts his laptop away and sets out cutlery on the table, then sits expectantly. “I hope it does not contain _too_ much butter.”

Greg snorts. “Oh my God, Mycroft –” He carries two plates of dinner over to the table and laughs at Mycroft’s deadpan expression. “That little shit.”

Mycroft smiles. “Indeed.”

They touch glasses again.

Mycroft tries a mouthful of butter chicken.

“Is it alright?” asks Greg, anxiously.

“Wonderful,” says Mycroft. “I must confess to being very hungry this evening.”

“Honestly, if I had your job I’d gain about ten stone from eating all the cakes,” smiles Greg. “It was bad enough when I was a waiter at uni. The café owner let me pick at all sorts. Luckily I was into rugby and football so it wasn’t much of a problem. Nowadays – I mean teaching’s not a _sedentary_ job exactly, but it’s not particularly active either.”

Mycroft tries to stop his eyes wandering over Greg’s frankly beautiful physique. “Your bike rides must keep you in shape.”

“Yeah, although not the last couple of weeks,” says Greg ruefully. “They had to order a part in and it’s taking forever. Once John and I find a place, I guess I’ll need to check the route and see how easy it’d be to cycle.”

Mycroft hesitates. “I think that –” he clears his throat. “It would certainly be best if you could move in with Dr Watson as soon as possible.”

Greg looks at him quizzically. “Yeah, well we’re definitely looking for…what d’you mean?”

“Gun oil,” says Mycroft quietly, turning his fork over in his hand. “Under his fingernails.”

“Gun oil.” Greg says it blankly. “But –” there’s a long pause, and then he puts his fork down and stares at Mycroft, aghast. “You mean –” He takes a gulp of wine, and passes a hand over his face. “Fuck. I had no idea. Fuck.”

Mycroft shrugs slightly. “It could mean nothing,” he says. “It just seemed odd to me.”

“Yeah, bloody right it’s odd,” says Greg. “You really have to try to keep a gun when you leave the Army. He must’ve had a reason. Shit.”

Mycroft feels suddenly awkward. “I am sorry.”

Greg looks up. “No, Mycroft – God, thank you for telling me,” he says, leaning forward. “I’ll try and get him to come with me tomorrow. If we go to a few estate agents, I’m sure one or two of them will let us do same-day viewings. And his job starts on Monday. That’ll help.”

Mycroft nods. “Indeed.”

“You notice things. Details.”

Mycroft looks down at his plate. “Yes.”

“And that’s what your brother does, too?”

“Yes.”

Greg sighs. “Then he’ll make a bloody good detective, I expect. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll just send John a quick text now.”

“Of course.” Mycroft pulls out his own phone, and sends a text to Sherlock:

[22:17] **An excellent and very characteristic start, brother mine. MH**

Greg puts his phone back in his pocket, and rubs his hand over his eyes. “Bloody hell. Let’s talk about something more cheerful.”

“Not politics, then,” says Mycroft, drily.

Greg grins. “God no.”

“How was the invigilation this week?”

“I said more cheerful, Mycroft, not so dull I want to scream.”

Mycroft realises after a moment that he means the activity, rather than the topic of conversation. He relaxes, and gives a small smile. “No exam paper accidents?”

“No, although one of the girls in the History GCSE got herself in such a state about it all she nearly passed out.” He rolls his eyes. “Honestly.” He finishes a mouthful of kale. “How was your week?”

“Much the same as usual, other than my visit to Sherlock. I began reading the book you lent me.”

“Yeah?” Greg gives him a warm smile. “Enjoying it?”

“Very much indeed. It made me wonder whether you might enjoy –” Mycroft crosses to a bookshelf at the other side of the small living room and reaches down a battered paperback, which he lays on the table next to Greg. He resumes his seat. “But perhaps you have read it.”

“No, no I haven’t. That’s great, thanks Mycroft. You don’t mind me borrowing?”

“Please do.”

Only when Mycroft is getting ready for bed does he receive a reply from his brother.

[00:05] **Don’t patronise me, Mycroft. SH**

*

Saturday night, and Mycroft does not finish cleaning the café until past ten. When he collects his mobile phone from the office, there’s a text waiting for him.

[21:04] **Good day? John and I’ve found a place. Hackney area, so a really quick cycle for me. Stupidly expensive but okay with both our salaries. Signing the lease on Wednesday. G x**

[22:17] **A long day. That is very good news. MH**

[22:19] **Have you only just finished locking up? G x**

[22:20] **Yes. MH**

[22:21] **You must be knackered :( Dinner, bath and bed! G x**

Mycroft cannot help a small smile.

[22:23] **Thank you Gregory. Wise advice. MH**

[22:25] **Sleep well Mycroft. G xx**

*

It’s at half past ten on Sunday morning that Molly brings him an iced americano and hovers, giggling nervously, next to his desk as he looks up.

“Thank you, Molly,” he says distractedly. He is halfway through the quarterly tax return and it is fully occupying his attention.

“Guess who’s here again,” says Molly, brightly.

“Mmm?”

“The – um, Greg. And his friend. John.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but does not look up from the laptop screen.

“They’re having breakfast.”

“Ah.”

She nearly turns away, but stops and faces him again. “I just thought you might want to – go and say hello?”

“I am sure that would be perfectly unnecessary,” he says calmly, eyes still fixed on the screen, although his brain has stopped making sense of what it is reading.

“Well, he – Greg – asked if you were around, so – so I thought I should tell you –”

“Yes, thank you Molly.” His tone is final, and he gives her a cold smile. He takes a sip of coffee. “Excellent coffee, as always.”

“Right,” she says, dithering for a few more moments before making for the door.

 _Damn._ The figures have stopped making sense to him. _How long will Greg stay? Will he think it odd if I go out to greet him? Will he think me rude if I do not?_ In an agony of indecision, Mycroft slowly finishes his coffee.

Concluding that it is pointless to continue trying to complete the taxes when he cannot concentrate, he puts on his apron and goes to help with making coffees. A glance from under his eyelashes tells him that Greg and John are having scones and iced coffees for breakfast, swapping bits of the _Observer_ and the _Sunday Times_ at a table by the window.

Mycroft turns his back and busies himself quickly with the coffee orders, but it’s only a couple of minutes before he hears Greg’s cheerful voice ordering another couple of iced lattes from Molly.

Greg moves to the waiting area and leans on the counter. Mycroft feels terribly aware of his presence.

“Alright Mycroft?” Greg’s voice is warm, and Mycroft can’t help glancing over to see his smile. His brown eyes are crinkled and soft.

Mycroft gives him a small smile. “Good morning, Gregory.”

“Paying customers, this time,” grins Greg.

Mycroft narrows his eyes at him, hands busy with the two iced coffees. “Anthea,” he says without turning round, “please do supply Greg and John with some more scones, free of charge.”

“Mycroft –”

“Gregory.”

Greg smiles at him and shakes his head slightly. “Honestly.” His tone is warm.

Mycroft finishes the coffees and carries the glasses carefully over to Greg.

“Thanks,” murmurs Greg, but he does not take them back to the table immediately. He remains leaning against the counter. “How’re you today? Manage to get some sleep?”

“I did, thank you,” says Mycroft quietly, very aware of Molly and Anthea listening in. “I am quite well. And you?”

“Alright, ta, but the mate I’m staying with – Mike – and his wife are hosting their kid’s birthday party today so I fled the house,” he laughs. “It was like a vision of hell already, and the other kids hadn’t even turned up yet.”

Mycroft gives a short huff of amusement and checks quickly over his shoulder. A couple of coffee orders await him, and he indicates with an apologetic nod that he should attend to them.

“See you in a bit,” says Greg, picking up the coffees.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft sees Anthea following Greg over to the table with another round of scones. John appears frankly stunned by her good looks, and is obviously trying to flirt.

She returns to the till without even bothering to roll her eyes.

*

As sometimes happens on Sundays, there’s a slight lull in the lunch rush at just past twelve, and Mycroft takes a moment to drink some cold water, standing to the side near the counter. Greg brings their cups back and leans in to talk.

“Um,” says Greg. “So – John and I are going to take off – gonna go and take a look at the area around the new flat – but he’s got stuff to do this evening and I was wondering…” Greg casts a quick glance up at Mycroft through his eyelashes. “Dunno if you’re busy this evening, but if not I could come back? We could get some dinner, maybe have a walk? If you fancy it?”

Mycroft blinks for a few moments. “I – certainly.”

Greg lets out a breath and says, “oh – great – cool. Okay, so I guess it’ll need to be about – six? Maybe?”

“That sounds – good. Yes.”

“Great.” There’s a long moment where neither of them says anything, and Greg just smiles at him. Then he pushes away from the counter and looks over to where John is waiting and watching at the table. “Right. Um. Okay. See you later.”

Once they have left the café and passed the windows, Molly and Anthea turn to him simultaneously, wearing expressions of glee and triumph respectively.

“So,” says Anthea, before he can make his escape. “That’s a date.”

Molly giggles. “Definitely.”

Mycroft gives them both an icy glare. “Hardly. Surely you do not believe that my simply leaving the café in the company of another human being automatically constitutes a romantic attachment.”

“No,” says Anthea, “but a handsome guy nervously asking you out to dinner _definitely_ does.”

Mycroft shakes his head and firmly takes off his apron, leaving them to deal with the rest of the lunch rush alone.

*

Anthea knocks on the open office door at about half past three. “Could I clean and lock up today?” she asks. “You may not have a date, but I have, and I told her to pick me up from here at half five. Might as well fill the time.”

Mycroft surveys her with narrowed eyes, resenting the transparent ruse. _Nevertheless…it would allow me time to shower and change, before…._ She is not remotely discomfited by his scrutiny. “Very well,” he says curtly.

“Thanks,” she says shortly, and turns on her heel.

He leaves the café just before five. Anthea is collecting up stray cups and plates from the tables. “The blue suit trousers,” she says, as he passes her.

From behind the counter, Molly calls, “wear the waistcoat!”

*

When the buzzer goes at six, Mycroft takes one last look in the mirror, checks he has his wallet, keys and phone, and takes the stairs down to the street door.

“Hi,” says Greg, as he steps out into the warmth of the sunny evening. “Love the suit,” he adds admiringly, running his eyes over Mycroft’s crisp white shirt, lavender tie, and blue trousers and waistcoat.

“Thank you,” murmurs Mycroft, trying not to ogle Greg too openly. He too has changed outfit: a soft check Oxford shirt in charcoal and light grey, along with dark navy jeans that fit snugly in all the right places.

“Thought we could walk down to the river, maybe across to the South Bank, enjoy the sunshine?” he smiles up at Mycroft. “We could get some dinner while we’re over there.”

“Certainly,” returns Mycroft.

They wend their way slowly down Berwick Street and Wardour Street, past record shops and artisan bakeries, comic stores and upmarket bars.

“Must be amazing living right in the centre like this,” says Greg enviously. “Anything you want to do, on your doorstep.”

“I do not make proper use of it,” says Mycroft. “My hours at the café are not conducive to exploring London’s many activities.”

“True. At least you can take a day off whenever, though,” says Greg. “Teaching’s a nightmare. Usually it’s not even worth taking a day off when you’re really ill, because you know you’ll only have to catch the kids up in the next lesson because they just pissed around with the supply teacher.”

Mycroft half-smiles. “I refer you to Doctor Watson’s comments about the entire six weeks of summer,” he says, watching sidelong as Greg starts to grin.

“Heartless.”

“Entirely,” says Mycroft loftily. Greg’s arm brushes his.

The evening sunshine brings out a golden glow in the stonework as they move through the crowds around Leicester Square and past St Martin in the Fields, down towards Charing Cross. They get separated for a few moments by a group of tourists, and Greg jokingly grasps Mycroft’s arm as they reunite. “Bloody hell, I forget how mad it gets in summer,” he says, letting go. “Good thing you’re so tall. I can always see you in the crowd.”

They speed up a little down to Embankment to escape the crowds, then stroll at a leisurely pace across the Jubilee bridge. The Thames glints in the golden evening sunshine.

Greg stops and leans against the railing, pointing out the progress of a particularly bizarrely-decorated yacht. As Mycroft stops to look, Greg touches his arm to make him lean against the railing too, and Mycroft feels a breathless tug in his chest. He squints into the reflected sunshine on the river and turns to look at Greg, who smiles up at him, eyes flickering over his face. Mycroft bites his bottom lip and looks away.

“Shall we buy dinner and find somewhere to sit?” asks Greg as they near the Southbank Centre. “There’s this great little Lebanese place that does takeaway, if you fancy it.” Greg grins at him. “But we can find somewhere posher if you want, to go with your outfit.”

“Not at all. That sounds…it is indeed enjoyable to be outside in the sunshine, instead of simply observing it through the windows of the café.”

“Great.” Greg steers them into a tiny backstreet. “Everything’s ridiculously fancy around here, but this place is great.”

The tiny Lebanese café has a huge menu, which Mycroft surveys doubtfully.

Greg sees his expression and leans in close to murmur, “I recommend the wraps. Always amazing. I’m having the chicken.” Mycroft catches a whiff of the same spicy cologne, and resists the urge to breathe Greg in.

Greg orders the chicken taouk wrap, and Mycroft goes for the halloumi and olive. The wraps come in boxes, surrounded by salad and pickles. Greg collects plastic forks and napkins, and carries the bag of food.

They wander slowly along the South Bank, watching street acts from the bizarre to the sublime, some attracting large crowds. Eventually Greg spots a bench looking out across the Thames. The nearby bar has strung fairy lights into the trees. A hundred yards away, a busker draws out gentle melodies on the violin.

“Here.” Greg shoos a pigeon off the bench and sets their bag of food down. “Come and join me.”

Mycroft takes a seat, and is supplied with dinner, a napkin and a fork.

“When was the last time you ate with a plastic fork?” asks Greg, with a grin.

“I fail to understand your meaning, Gregory,” says Mycroft, opening up the takeaway box.

“Mycroft, you look like you’ve wandered out of a Bond film.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yes,” says Greg, grinning at him. “I mean, granted you didn’t go full bow-tie, but I bet you own one.”

“Several.”

“There you go.”

“Probably several years,” says Mycroft, drily.

Greg chuckles. “Thought so.” He opens his own takeaway box. “At least you’re getting dinner at a decent time for once.”

Mycroft smiles slightly, and takes a bite of the wrap. It’s delicious, the creamy, salty halloumi mingling with the slight sourness of olives and freshness of za'atar. He makes an appreciative _mmm_ noise.

“Good?” smiles Greg, through a mouthful of his own wrap.

“Wonderful.”

They sit close enough on the bench that their upper arms brush when they move to eat. Mycroft crosses his legs and looks out across the Thames.

“Weird to think how polluted and disgusting the Thames is,” says Greg. “On an evening like this it looks good enough to swim in.”

“People do, I believe.”

“Yeah, well, I definitely wouldn’t.”

Mycroft shoots him an amused glance. “I tend to agree.”

There’s a short silence while they both eat and watch the boats.

“Anthea really shot John down today,” says Greg. “It was pretty brutal. Hard to watch.”

Mycroft can’t help a small noise of amusement. “She can be very forthright.”

Greg smiles. “He’s pretty direct, too, when he decides to flirt with someone, so to be honest it was probably the best way to deal with it.”

“He does that a lot?”

“Well,” says Greg, seeming to weigh his words. “He’s not a dog or anything, but he did have a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man within the regiment.”

“In Afghanistan?” asks Mycroft, with humorous surprise.

“Ha. More from R&R leave, I think, although there were a few servicewomen…”

Mycroft gives a small smile. “I see.” He finishes another bite of salad. “Anthea has a date tonight. A third date, I understand, with a policy advisor called Miranda.”

“Ah, right. Bad luck for John, then.”

“Indeed.”

Pigeons strut hopefully closer to the bench, eyeing their food. Greg wiggles his foot at them and they fall back, just a little.

“Molly and Anthea both seem really fond of you,” says Greg.

Mycroft gives a half-shrug. He is not sure what to say.

“Mark of a good boss, that,” says Greg, as he spears a couple of pickles on his fork. “Respect and appreciation from your employees.”

Mycroft looks out across the river.

“So when will Sherlock be done in rehab?” asks Greg.

“Two weeks, if all goes well,” says Mycroft quietly.

“And then what?”

“Unless he allows me to rent him a flat, I expect he will come to stay at mine,” says Mycroft, with as little emotion as possible.

“You don’t sound like that’ll be exactly fun,” says Greg, with a touch of amusement.

Mycroft sighs. “We have a – difficult relationship,” he says. “Much of it is my fault. My attempts to…to protect him by controlling him have backfired spectacularly.” The violin music soars on the evening breeze. “Unfortunately, while in my flat he rebels against me in minor ways such as insulting me regularly and creatively and, on the last occasion, spectacularly blowing up my microwave.”

“Huh. Great.” Greg finishes a mouthful of wrap. “No more Friday dinners and a bottle of wine at yours.”

“Not unless you wish to engage in verbal sparring with Sherlock, and jostle for room on the table with his malodorous and quite possibly explosive ‘experiments’.”

Greg chuckles. “He really sounds like a handful.”

“Indeed.”

“Oh well. Maybe you can come to dinner at mine, once John and I are all set up.”

Mycroft is suddenly very aware of the warmth of Greg’s arm next to his own. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Probably I’ll just end up listening to Watson bringing a new girl home every seventy-two hours,” sighs Greg. “I feel very old, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gives an amused hum. “If it is any comfort, you do not look it.”

“Ha. Thanks. It is.” Greg leans in to push Mycroft’s shoulder with his own, and when he pulls away the space between their upper arms is even smaller.

Mycroft ignores the way his heart flips, and closes the takeaway box on the last shreds of wrap and salad. “Thank you, Gregory, that was delicious.”

Greg packs their rubbish away in the bag and crosses to the closest bin, scattering disappointed pigeons.

“D’you fancy a drink?” he asks, nodding to the bar with outside tables, strung about with fairy lights. “It’s getting a bit chilly.”

The evening light is fading, sky a spectrum from gold through delicate pink to, high up, velvet navy. Mycroft stands. “An excellent idea.”

They take a table and a waitress appears for their order. Mycroft orders a single-malt whisky, and Greg asks for a glass of the same.

“What?” he asks, seeing Mycroft’s amused quirk of an eyebrow. “With that suit, I trust your choice in drinks.”

Mycroft can’t help smiling. “Perhaps I should wear this suit more often.”

“Please do.” There’s a pause, and then Greg says, “You know, the suit’s just another argument for you being a spy before you owned the café.”

Mycroft maintains an expression of polite perplexity while the waitress places their drinks in front of them. “Gregory, really.”

Greg grins. “Go on then. What did you really do? Banker? Politician? You don’t seem the type.”

Mycroft takes a sip of whisky.

Greg takes one too, and fills the silence. “What did you do at university?”

“Philosophy, Politics and Economics.”

“Where?”

“Balliol College. Oxford.”

“Right, definitely a politician then. That’s what most people at the top of politics do, isn’t it?”

Mycroft concedes the point with a tilt of his head.

“Right. Politician. So – what, were you an MP or something?” Greg frowns at him over his whisky glass.

Mycroft can’t restrain a huff of amusement. “No. No. I merely held a – a minor position within the government. But one that came with a good deal of responsibility, nonetheless.” He ignores Greg’s quizzical look.

“So what happened?” asks Greg. “Why don’t you do that any more?”

Mycroft takes several sips of whisky before answering. “There was an – incident. It was when Sherlock was about to be sent down from Cambridge, and I was –” he hesitates. “An operation went badly because I was distracted. I was injured.” Unconsciously he runs a hand down his left thigh. “I was psychologically evaluated and –” he sighs, tossing back the rest of his whisky, “– deemed a security risk until and unless my brother’s situation ceased to disturb me.” He places the glass back on the table with a precise little _plink._ “As you know, Sherlock’s situation has since only worsened. I believe their decision was prejudiced by the nature of his problems.”

Greg stares at him for a few moments. “You were injured?”

Mycroft raises his head. “Oh – yes. My left leg.” He flicks his fingers in a dismissive wave. “You asked on a previous occasion how I can afford to support Sherlock. The severance pay from a position such as – with the particular duties of the one I held – was, as you might imagine, generous. With careful investment, and income from the café, I can live modestly and support my brother until he recovers.” He watches the reflection of the fairy lights in the side of the glass tumbler. _If he recovers._

“D’you miss it?” asks Greg, quietly.

“Oh yes. The challenges it presented were uniquely stimulating. Part of Sherlock’s current behaviour is based in an erroneous sense of guilt for the loss of my job. He believes that I blame him, whereas in reality it was my own fault, my own lack of ability to regulate my emotions that led to…” his long fingers gesture on the edge of the table.

“Mycroft, that’s normal – not being able to switch off your emotions about your family. No, that’s admirable. Just because your employers didn’t see it that way, doesn’t mean it isn’t.”

Mycroft raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “It has done neither Sherlock nor me any good.”

“Oh come on Mycroft,” says Greg cheekily. “If you were still a spy you’d never’ve met me.”

Mycroft laughs. “There is that, of course.” He motions to the waitress to bring another two whiskies.

Greg smiles. “You don’t me asking?” he asks tentatively. “I feel like I pushed you into telling me.”

Mycroft flicks his gaze up to Greg’s, and gives a small shake of the head. “No. Not sharing personal information became a habit. A hard one to break.”

The waitress brings them their whiskies and removes the old glasses. Greg holds out his glass and Mycroft touches his own to it.

“Well I’m very glad you were at the café to scrape me off the road and give me tea,” he smiles, taking a sip.

Mycroft inhales the woody scent of the whisky and looks into Greg’s dark eyes. “As am I.”

“Would you go back?” asks Greg. “If everything got sorted with Sherlock?”

“I doubt that the opportunity would arise,” says Mycroft.

“If it did. If Sherlock got clean and on his own feet, and they asked you.”

“I expect so,” says Mycroft, blankly.

“Smiley.”

Mycroft gives a wry huff of amusement. “Hardly.”

They finish their whiskies in silence.

“Shall we make a move?” asks Greg. Mycroft nods and motions to the waitress that he wishes to pay the bill.

They walk slowly back across the bridge. In the late evening chill, Mycroft is more aware than ever of the warmth of Greg next to him. Once or twice, the backs of their hands brush together.

“And you?” he asks. “Do you have siblings?”

“One, yeah,” says Greg. “Emma. She’s a couple of years older than me. She and her husband live over near Colchester. Three daughters. I’ll go and stay with them for a bit, probably, over the summer.”

“You are an uncle.”

Greg smiles at the slight note of surprise in Mycroft’s voice. “Yeah. Don’t I look like one?”

Mycroft smiles. “Far too young.”

“Shameless flatterer,” laughs Greg. “God. Half my mates from school and uni – more than half – have got at least one or two kids by now.” He pauses, and Mycroft regrets making him think of his wife. “I hope the post-children’s party devastation is over by now.”

“Surely.”

“Hopefully Tom – Mike and Sarah’s son – has stopped throwing up jelly, ice cream and cake,” says Greg. “That usually seems to be how my nieces’ birthday parties go, anyway.”

Mycroft grimaces. “Wonderful.”

Greg laughs.

“Are you invigilating again this week?” asks Mycroft, casting a sidelong glance at Greg.

“Yeah, a few times, and covering some lessons for the Year Eights and Nines while their teachers invigilate.” He sighs. “Holiday can’t come soon enough.”

“When does it begin?”

“Twenty-third of June.”

“Not long.”

“Nah. There’s always a week or so at the start where it’s best to keep going in, get on with the admin so you’re not drowning come September,” Greg says as they wander down Wardour Street. “But after that I’m planning to just relax for a week.”

“Very nice,” murmurs Mycroft.

“You don’t strike me as the sort of person who likes just relaxing,” smiles Greg, dark eyes wide as he looks up into Mycroft’s face. “Bet you’re always doing something.”

Mycroft tips his head in acquiescence. “You are not far wrong.”

Their arms and hands brush. Mycroft looks away, into the window of a small restaurant.

“I’ve got a huge pile of reading I want to get on with, anyway,” says Greg, eagerly. “Can’t wait. Don’t manage to read nearly enough during term time. Which is a bit crap for an English teacher.”

As they approach Mycroft’s door, his heart races. _What will he – should I_ – The warmth in the slim separation between their bodies as they walk seems full of possibility. He bites his bottom lip.

On the doorstep, Greg pushes one hand through his silver hair and smiles up at Mycroft. “Thank you. I had a great time.”

“As did I. Thank you for dinner.”

There’s an awkward pause, and Greg shifts his feet on the pavement. “So…goodnight. And I hope you have a good week.” He looks as if he’s going to turn and walk away, and then he steps a little closer. “Goodnight,” he says again, tentatively drawing Mycroft into a hug.

Mycroft breathes him in, the scent of his cologne making him want to bury his nose in his neck. Before he pulls away, Greg turns his head and places a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s cheek, just a hint of stubble teasing his skin, lips soft.

“Goodnight,” murmurs Mycroft.

“Sleep well,” grins Greg, and then he’s walking away down the street, digging his hands into his jeans pockets.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely supportive comments ❤️
> 
> As mentioned in the tags and the notes previously, the story is rated Teen apart from the final chapter, which will be Explicit (but you can easily treat the end of Chapter 4 as the end of the story if that isn't your thing).

On Monday, Mycroft goes about his tasks at the café in a world of his own, hardly responding even to Anthea and Molly’s comments.

_Why didn’t he kiss me?_

_Perhaps he is straight after all. Or simply not attracted to me._

_Anthea was sure it was a date. She could have been mistaken, and it was foolish of me to trust her perceptions._

_Why didn’t he kiss me?_

_Why didn’t I kiss him?_

*

[22:34] ****Thanks so much for a lovely time on Sunday evening. Wondered if you fancy dinner again on Friday? I could cook. G x****

[22:39] ****I look forward to it. White or red? MH****

[22:40] ****Not sure. What goes with gnocchi, wild rocket dressing and parmesan? G x****

[22:42] ****Either really. Red? I could always get both. MH****

[22:44] ****Trying to get me drunk, Mr Holmes? G xx****

[22:45] ****Certainly not, Gregory. MH****

[22:46] ****Sleep well, Mycroft. G xx****

*

By Friday lunchtime, Mycroft has to leave the café. He squints at his phone as he gropes his way up the stairs to his flat.

[13:01] ****Gregory, I am sorry but I have a migraine. It is severe and likely to last until tomorrow. MH****

[13:06] ****Oh no, Mycroft, I’m sorry. Do you want me to come over and look after you? G x****

[13:10] ****That is very kind, but I fear the next few hours will involve**** ** **only**** ** **lying still in a darkened room trying not to**** ** **vomit**** ** **. It would be best if I do that alone. MH****

[13:11] ****Damn, poor you :( Hope you feel a lot better soon. Have you got enough painkillers etc.? G x****

[13:15] ****Yes, thank you Gregory. MH****

*

Mid-morning on Saturday, he feels well enough to rejoin Anthea and Molly in the café, although they insist that he keeps to the office.

“You look like shit,” says Anthea.

“Thank you so much,” replies Mycroft, but he knows that he is pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He got hardly any sleep, and his head is still tender. He works at the accounts with dogged, slow persistence.

Towards the end of the day, the staff at the rehabilitation centre inform him that he can visit Sherlock on Sunday.

*

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s greeting is unenthusiastic, but hardly as violent as the last welcome had been, so Mycroft counts it as good. “You need to get me access to a morgue.”

Mycroft blinks. “I see. Have you taken up taxidermy?”

Sherlock waves his comment away. “Not any morgue. Barts’ morgue. I have a case.”

“You are in rehabilitation, Sherlock. You cannot leave the clinic. You will have to refuse the case.”

“May I remind you that you are the one who told me to advertise for business? And now I _have_ business, you are telling me to give it up.”

“Because weaning you off heroin is more important than some – some _corpse.”_

“Uuurgh,” cries Sherlock in frustration, pulling at his curls. “You remain a stolid and unbearably pompous _lump_ of a man! The _puzzle,_ Mycroft, the _puzzle!_ It is the most important thing. With puzzles to solve, I don’t _need_ heroin. I just need more puzzles. And unless I succeed at these puzzles, no more puzzles will come! And I _need_  more.”

Mycroft stares at him. “I will try my best, Sherlock, but I can make no guarantee.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, don’t worry Mycroft, I know you’re no longer as all-powerful as you once were.” He turns away.

“I was not –”

“What do you plan for me when I leave?” asks Sherlock curtly. “I assume you have some idea which I am not party to, and it is after all only a week away.”

“You are welcome to stay with me. Or I can look into renting you somewhere, but it will take time.”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, back still turned to the room. “Conditional upon my remaining clean, of course.”

Mycroft winces. _Of course it is conditional upon that. But you know that I will support you even if you relapse. You hold all the cards, little brother._ “Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock continues to look out of the window. “Puzzles, Mycroft.”

*

On the train, Mycroft finds that he has a text message from Greg.

[18:28] ****Popped by the café but they said you were visiting Sherlock. Hope it goes well. G x****

[19:33] ****It was tiring. Do you know if John ever works at St Bartholemew’s Hospital? MH****

[19:34] ****We’re at the pub together. I’ll ask him. G x****

[19:39] ****He says he has access. Why? G x****

[19:40] ****Sherlock has a case. It seems to be giving him a reason to try in rehab. He says he needs access to Barts’ morgue to examine a corpse. MH****

[19:43] ****John says it’d be bending the rules to the point of snapping, but he might be able to look at the corpse for him, if Sherlock tells him what he’s looking for. G x****

[19:44] ****That is very kind. Could you send me his number, if he is happy for me to pass it to Sherlock? MH****

[19:46] ****He says no worries. 07815 556 328. G x****

[19:47] ****Please give him my thanks, and tell him that he should simply ignore Sherlock if he becomes importunate. MH****

[19:48] ****Well that’s encouraging, Mycroft ;) G x****

 

[19:48] ****Sherlock – this is Dr John Watson’s telephone number. He is a Force Medical Examiner who has access to Barts. Please try not to annoy or insult him so thoroughly that he refuses to help you. 07815 556 328. MH****

 

[19:55] ****I believe Sherlock’s just rung John. Think he might be a bit eager. G x****

[19:57] ****Oh dear. I hope he does not manage to alienate him entirely in one short telephone call. MH****

[19:58] ****Not convinced it’s going to be a short conversation. John seems intrigued. G x****

[19:59] ****And a bit scared. G x****

[20:00] ****But he’s laughing a lot. G x****

[20:01] ****How are you doing after your migraine? Crap that I haven’t seen you for a week. G x****

[20:04] ****I am tired. How was your week? MH****

[20:05] ****Full of unbearable boredom followed by terror at having to teach Year 8 and 9 lessons I wasn’t ready for. G x****

[20:08] ****Sounds terrible. And what does this week hold? MH****

[20:09] ****Much the same. I’ll come by and see you one evening this week, if that’s alright? G x****

[20:11] ****Of course. Next weekend will be busy as Sherlock will be coming out of rehabilitation. MH****

[20:12] ****Yep. And John and I will be moving into the new flat (finally). Sure Mike and Sarah will be glad to get rid of me at last. G x****

[20:12] ****Think I’ve been officially abandoned in this pub. John’s walking around the courtyard talking to Sherlock now. He left his cane behind at the table though! G x****

[20:13] ****Psychosomatic limp. MH****

[20:14] ****He didn’t tell you that did he? Took him ages to tell me. G x****

[20:15] ****No this is you doing what you did before, with the gun oil. What you said Sherlock does. Reading people. G x****

[20:15] ****So what did you read about me when you first met me, Mr Holmes? :) G x****

[20:19] ****I am afraid that the answer is**** ** **terribly prosaic**** ** **, Gregory. I ‘read’ only that you had been knocked off your bicycle and needed help. Once you were in the café, your profession was obvious from the chalk residue on the handle of your bag, as well as the unmarked essays inside it. MH****

[20:20] ****You’re amazing :) G x****

[20:23] ****Hardly. MH****

[20:24] ****Shush Mycroft. G xxx****

*

“Mycroft,” says Greg, knocking on the open café door at ten to nine. “How are you?” His smile is wide and beautiful. Mycroft looks up at him through his eyelashes, straightening up from wiping a table.

Somehow he had not expected Greg to visit so soon after their text conversation of the previous day. His heart seems to miss a beat.

Greg steps in closer, and tries to take the cloth from Mycroft’s hands. “I’ll do that,” he says. “You can get on with something else.”

“Gregory,” says Mycroft, refusing to relinquish it. “You have already spent the day at work. There is no reason for you to work here too.”

Their hands are close, wound in the cloth. Evening sunshine glints in Greg’s silver hair.

“It’s nice to see you,” murmurs Greg.

“Mikey, _darling,”_  says a voice behind Mycroft, and he whips round.

“Mummy,” he says blankly, and then cringes at the childishness of it.

Any further words he could possibly have attempted are drowned out. “Darling. Are we too late? We couldn’t remember what time your little shop was open until, but we thought you might let us in anyway, even if we’d missed it.” She laughs and descends upon him, pulling him down to her level to plant a kiss on his cheek.

His father nods gently at him, and pats his shoulder.

“Now who is _this?”_ asks Mummy, eyeing Greg with distinct favour. “Mikey, you didn’t tell us you were –”

“Mummy, this is a _friend._ Greg Lestrade,” he says hurriedly. “Greg – my parents, Violet and Edward.”

Greg holds out his hand politely, and is cooed over by Mummy while they all shake hands.

“Can we have a coffee, darling?” asks Mummy, turning back to him. “We’ve been on our feet all day.”

His father nods. “All day.”

Mummy runs on without stopping. “Do you remember Arabella Naughton?” Mycroft nods. “Well she got in touch to say she’s got a new granddaughter and she’s looking after her this week, she wants to show her off to us, so did we want to come to London for the day? So we’ve been seeing her.” She takes a seat at one of the tables. “Cappuccino please, Mikey.”

Mycroft cringes at the repetition of the nickname. “And you, Father?”

“He’ll have the same,” says Violet, and he nods. “So anyway, in the end it got so late we’ve decided we’re staying at Hazlitt’s. Luckily they had room to squeeze us in. But we’ll be off quite early, so we thought you’d never forgive us if we didn’t come and see you.”

Mycroft purses his lips, hands busy with the cappuccinos.

“Greg, please do come and sit with us,” says Violet enthusiastically. “I’m sure Mikey will be making you a coffee too,” she adds pointedly.

Mycroft, in fact wishing for a localised sink hole to open, starts doing so.

Greg takes a seat at the table.

“Well in the end we couldn’t see what all the fuss was about,” says Mummy. “Child was ghastly.”

“Ghastly,” echoes Father.

Greg coughs slightly into his hand.

“But we spent hours with them. Good Lord, you know how Arabella does go _on_ if you give her half a chance,” says Mummy.

Mycroft raises one eyebrow at the coffee machine and starts assembling a tray of coffees.

“So anyway, darling, when are _you_  going to give us some grandchildren?” Mummy asks cheerily. “I’m sure ours would be much better than anyone else’s, and then we’d be able to show off to Arabella in return.”

Mycroft adds napkins to the tray, keeping his flaming face hidden. After a few moments he can avoid it no longer and carries the coffees over to the table, distributing cappuccinos to his parents and an iced latte to Greg, who gives him a grin.

“Let’s have some of that lovely-looking chocolate cake, darling,” adds Mummy. “We seem to have been eating cake all day, of course, but Arabella made it so it hardly counts. You remember how everyone used to try and avoid her cakes at the church bazaar? Or were you too young? I can’t remember. Was it Sherlock who was too young, or Mycroft? Edward?”

“Don’t know, darling,” murmurs Edward.

Mycroft goes to fetch them a slice of chocolate cake each, plus fruitcake for Greg.

“Speaking of Sherlock,” says Mummy when he sits down again, “what is he _doing,_ Mikey? He simply never returns our phone calls, and the past couple of weeks he has not even been returning our texts. Is he alright? We do _worry.”_

“Worry,” nods Edward vaguely, through a mouthful of cake.

“He is – quite well, Mummy,” murmurs Mycroft, looking down at the table. “He is starting a new business. Private detection.”

“Oh,” says Mummy, surprised. “Well, at least _you_ know what your brother’s doing. We are so proud of you both, darling, and especially of how close you are.”

Mycroft cannot bring himself to look up.

“So Greg, what do _you_  do?” asks Mummy, turning the laser of her attention on him.

Greg smiles. “I’m a secondary school teacher. English Literature.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” says Mummy, looking from Greg to Mycroft. “What a wonderful thing, to be shaping young minds, don’t you think Edward?”

“Oh! Yes,” says Father meekly.

“Of course you never really took to literature at school, did you Mikey? Your teacher was ghastly, I remember, what was it? Mr Trant? Turner? Something beginning with ‘t’ anyway.”

“That was Sherlock, Mummy,” murmurs Mycroft. “I was always relatively keen on literature.”

She does not seem to have heard. “The real tragedy of Arabella going on and __on__ for so long today is that we couldn’t go to the theatre this evening,” she says crossly. “We were thinking of coming to see if you wanted to join us at the new _Aladdin,_ if they had any tickets left on the door –”

Mycroft accidentally makes eye contact with Greg. His beautiful brown eyes are crinkled with mirth over the edge of his glass.

“– but of course by the time Arabella had _finally_ put the girl to bed and shown us about three hundred photographs of their last trip to Australia – you know their youngest is there, working for Pottinger? Huge house, terrible taste – it was _far_ too late. And usually we’d just stay another night, but tomorrow’s the consultation meeting about that new development they’ve planned in Roper’s Field as was, and we’re not missing _that_ because we have a lot of thoughts to share, it looks absolutely _ghastly_ and it simply must be stopped.”

“Ghastly. Stopped,” agrees Father.

Despite having seemed not to draw breath, Mummy has somehow finished her cake. “So I know you’ll be disappointed darling, but _Aladdin_  will have to wait for the next time we come.” She takes a swig of cappuccino. “Oh, maybe Greg would like it too? We could all go, we could dig Sherlock out of –” she gestures vaguely with her hand, “– wherever he is, and we could all go. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, darling?”

Mycroft stares at the sugarbowl and murmurs a non-committal “mmm.”

“Why aren’t you eating, Mycroft?” asks Mummy, sharply, having just noticed. “You’re not going silly about your weight again are you darling? Because you’re _very_ tall and skinny – both our boys are, you know Greg – and just because Sherlock likes to tease you about a bit of puppy fat –”

 _And I thought it could not get any worse._  He fights the urge to cover his face with his hands.

“You simply must make sure he _eats,_ Greg –”

“Mummy,” says Mycroft sharply. “I do not have an appetite for cake at this hour. I was about to finish cleaning the café and have dinner.”

“Oh yes! Of course! We’re holding you up,” says Mummy, picking up her handbag. Father scrambles to finish his cappuccino. “Well _do_  try and get Sherlock to call us, darling, and we’ll ring you soon about the _Aladdin_ idea,” she says, making for the door. “Lovely to meet you, Greg.” She pulls Mycroft down for another kiss and whispers at top volume into his ear, “gosh, isn’t he _handsome.”_

Mycroft can feel himself turning beetroot red. He receives another pat on the shoulder from his father, and then they walk away down the street, towards the tube station. Slowly, he turns to face Greg.

He had stood up when Violet and Edward were leaving, and is leaning on the table, laughing.

Mycroft puts his hands over his face.

Greg’s much closer when Mycroft hears him speak. “So. I didn’t have you pegged for a musicals fan.”

Mycroft groans, and lets his hands fall. “Oh dear Lord.”

Greg laughs. “Mikey. Adorable.”

“No. Stop reliving it.”

“And Arabella was the one who did all the talking, of course.”

“It is all an act, you know,” says Mycroft, starting to pile the cups and plates onto a tray, avoiding eye contact. “She was a mathematician. Former Cambridge professor. Her first book is still regarded as seminal in the field.”

“Ah,” says Greg. He does not seem particularly surprised. “That’s where you get your brains from.”

“You are not surprised at – at the role she chooses to play?”

“Should I be?” Greg picks up the cloth and starts wiping the table, turning to look up at Mycroft. _“You_  play the role of a café owner, but you’ve got a first-class mind, speak umpteen languages –” he stops at Mycroft’s look of surprise. “Your bookshelves. I saw at least French, Spanish, Italian, German and Greek, and that was just the alphabets I recognised.” He laughs. “I sort of assumed there was more to them than meets the eye.”

Mycroft blinks, and turns to take the tray back to the kitchen.

After the hoovering is complete, Greg leans against the counter and watches Mycroft finish cleaning the coffee machine. “Why can’t you tell them about Sherlock?” he asks, biting his bottom lip. “They’d cope, wouldn’t they? They seem sensible.”

Mycroft sighs. “They might cope, but Sherlock would not. He has threatened me with instant death if I tell them, and given his intimate and practical knowledge of poisons that is not something to be taken lightly.” He dries his hands on his apron and unties it. Despite his light tone, fatigue washes through him.

“It just – still seems like a lot for you to deal with alone,” says Greg quietly.

Mycroft sighs, and shrugs. He is not sure what to say. Suddenly he just wants to be alone, in his flat, going through the mechanical, easy motions of making dinner and falling into bed. “I should –” he motions to the door, and Greg nods, watching him cautiously as they step outside.

“So –” says Greg uncomfortably as they pause outside the door to Mycroft’s flat. “It was nice to see you.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft. “Sorry about –” he gestures.

“No, no,” says Greg. “So I’ll – I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“I am sure,” says Mycroft. “Goodnight Greg.”

*

On Friday, Mycroft rents a car and goes to pick up Sherlock. Waiting for his brother to be discharged is tedious, but he fills the time reading the newspaper, trying to pick up the undercurrents of the news behind the news, the real stories to be found when one digs deeper.

The journey back is characterised by Sherlock turning up the radio and texting incessantly, giving nothing more than uninterested grunts in reply to Mycroft’s questions.

Back at the flat, Sherlock eyes the single bed in the tiny second bedroom with disfavour, checks his curls in the bathroom mirror and pulls on his long, dark coat.

“I’m off, bruv,” is all he says to Mycroft, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“I was going to make dinner –”

“I’ll eat it when I get back. Don’t wait up.”

“How can you possibly be wearing that coat, Sherlock? It’s twenty-six degrees outside.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going to a morgue.”

“With Doctor Watson? Because –”

“See you later, Mycroft,” calls Sherlock, from the hall. “Got to see a man about a body.”

*

Mycroft is filling out the weekly food order on Saturday afternoon when his phone buzzes.

[15:36] ****What’s the point of having a flatmate if you end up moving everything in yourself because he spends every second texting some mad bastard about corpses? G x****

[15:40] ****Oh dear. My apologies, Gregory. MH****

[15:42] ** **I wouldn’t mind but I’m moving his stuff now as well! He might as well not be here. G x****

[15:44] ****How is it going? MH****

[15:45] ****Quite well, considering :) How’s your day? G x****

[15:47] ****Paperwork, mostly. Not particularly exciting. MH****

[15:48] ****Do you fancy coming for dinner here tomorrow evening? I’ll cook and you can see the new place. It will probably be a total tip but the oven works, so the food should be alright. John will be out – he says he’s got a date but I’m not sure if he means with a woman, or another**** ** **night of**** ** **ogling corpses with your brother. G x****

[15:49] ****Certainly, thank you Gregory. I imagine I could be at yours by seven, if that suits. White or red? MH****

[15:53] ****Red please. Seven is good. Look forward to seeing you. G x****

*

On the overground to Hackney, Mycroft smoothes his hand down the seam of his grey tweed trousers and stares pensively out of the window. He has concerns about leaving the flat unattended while Sherlock is living with him. Some sort of flood or explosion is likely to greet him on his return. Still, Sherlock had been out of the flat when he left. _Engaged in the puzzle, surely, not in buying and using heroin._

Sherlock had never actually used in Mycroft’s flat, as far as he knew. He had simply gone missing as soon as he needed to, had disappeared so thoroughly that Mycroft, shorn of his ability to misuse the tools of state surveillance, had been forced to search for him, desperately, using any and all leads he could muster. Each time it got harder. He appeared to be learning from his mistakes.

_If only I did not live in London. Perhaps I should send him somewhere else? But this city is his. He chose it and he loves it. Not only, I believe, for its copious opportunities to obtain illegal substances._

_And besides, such things are to be found everywhere, if you look hard enough. Or too often, not hard at all._

The flat is in a nondescript building above a small row of shops. He presses the buzzer for Greg’s flat and makes his way up the narrow staircase to where the door stands open.

“Just getting the meat out of the oven,” calls Greg. “Come in.”

Mycroft makes his way into a small, white-painted kitchen/living room. Placing the bottle of wine on the table, he turns to find Greg watching him.

Greg puts a baking tray containing a joint of beef onto the hob, closes the oven and takes off the oven gloves. He steps over to Mycroft and puts a hand on his arm, leaning up to place a soft kiss on his cheek. “Another amazing suit,” he says quietly.

Mycroft can’t help a small smile. Greg is wearing slim grey jeans and a navy shirt. The intensity of Mycroft’s desire to pull him close and kiss his neck makes his breath catch. He pulls back.

“Mycroft, I –” Greg has not removed his hand from Mycroft’s arm, and now he looks up into his face, brown eyes wide and searching. “I just want to say, before we have dinner, I – I’m really sorry for pushing the other day. About Sherlock. I don’t really have any experience with this kind of situation, and I had no right to –” he waves his other hand. “Poke my nose in. I just –” he hesitates. “I think you always do what’s right for Sherlock, and maybe not always what’s good for you. That’s why it worries me. But that still doesn’t give me the right to tell you what to do.”

Slowly, Mycroft shakes his head. The warmth of Greg’s hand on his arm is distracting. “You are right that dealing with Sherlock does not allow much room for – personal considerations,” he says reluctantly. “But I am not sure that I have been doing what is best for Sherlock, either.” He sighs.

Greg tilts his head, eyes sympathetic.

“I managed to instill in him from a young age the idea that his gifts must not be wasted, that he must become perfect in his chosen field, eschewing emotional compromise of all sorts. Our parents may seem –” he waves a hand, “– but in practice, they were insistent that we should develop and make best use of our talents. It was of course the same standard to which I attempted to hold myself, but it was unforgivable of me to replicate it, and to thereby intensify the pressure on Sherlock. Naturally, he rebelled against it, and as such I drove him indirectly into the arms of a man who proved to be the least deserving recipient of Sherlock’s trust that he could possibly have found.”

Greg looks up at him, eyes deep. “Mycroft, you take far too much on yourself. I mean, where are your parents in all this? Where’s Sherlock’s own free will? You say Sherlock acts out of guilt for the loss of your job, but you’re acting out of guilt too! When are you both going to realise you can’t live each other’s lives?”

Mycroft blinks, and bites his bottom lip. Slowly, he turns his arm over under Greg’s hand, until his palm cups Greg’s elbow. His fingertips maraud slightly under the fabric of his rolled-up sleeve. He does not miss the slight flicker of Greg’s eyelids as he brushes the tender skin. “This is why I do not mind you ‘poking your nose in’, Gregory. I value your advice,” he says quietly. “Truly.”

Greg’s gaze flicks over his face. “I’m opening the wine,” he says, in a lighter tone. “I think we need it.”

Mycroft gives a small huff of amusement. “You may be right.”

They take a seat at the table, and Greg touches their glasses together. Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a sip of the deep, rich red.

“So I managed to get mostly unpacked,” says Greg, looking around the living room. “Starting with the kitchen stuff, obviously. But it’s still a tip. I’m sorry,” he grins. “Not exactly fit for entertaining, but given what you said about Sherlock when he’s at yours –”

Mycroft grimaces. “Indeed.” He looks around. “I wouldn’t say it’s a ‘tip’, Gregory. I assume those boxes are –”

“John’s? Yep,” laughs Greg. “He’s been out all day. Guess he’s just going straight to his date. Or he’s with her already.” He shakes his head. “So the meat could do with resting a bit longer, and the roast potatoes aren’t quite there yet. You don’t mind waiting a bit for dinner?”

Mycroft gives a small shake of the head. “Not at all.” He looks at the corner of the room. “Is that your guitar?”

“Yeah,” says Greg, looking shyly down at the carpet. “I haven’t played properly for a while, but I’m thinking of taking lessons again. Get back into it.”

“You have guitarist’s hands,” says Mycroft, feeling himself start to blush before he’s even finished saying it.

Greg turns his hands over, looking at his strong fingers. “Yeah?” he asks, glancing up at Mycroft. “I always think yours look like you play the piano.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Mycroft curls his fingers around his wine glass. “I used to.”

Greg smiles. “You should get a keyboard. We could jam.” He reaches across the table, and pulls Mycroft’s left hand closer, laying his fingers flat against the table. He runs his fingertips slowly down each of Mycroft’s fingers. Biting his bottom lip, he looks up to find Mycroft watching him. His lips part, he pauses, but then he seems to decide to speak.

“There was – something else I wanted to apologise for,” he says, voice hesitant. “It was about – about our – the –” he takes a deep breath, “– our date.”

Mycroft’s heart thumps, and his attention flows between Greg’s words and the distractingly lovely feeling of those fingers stroking his own.

“I – I chickened out of kissing you at the last minute,” says Greg, with a lopsided smile. “I was going to, and then – it sounds stupid but it’s just been a long time – since my last first date, I mean – and I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to or not, so I just – chickened out. I – I know I’m not exactly a catch right now, with the divorce and everything, but – I’ve regretted it ever since, because at least I would’ve found out.”

Mycroft’s breath catches in the back of his throat, and he curls his fingers, Greg’s hand in his. “I did,” he admits, staring down at their fingers. “Want you to.” He looks up through his eyelashes to find Greg watching him.

Greg stands up, and pulls on Mycroft’s hand. “Come here,” he murmurs.

Mycroft stands, remembering at the last moment to leave his wine glass on the table.

Greg draws him close, interlacing their fingers. His eyes are deep, and soft, and he puts his right hand on Mycroft’s chest, slowly moving it up until it winds around the back of his neck. He presses up, and the space between them lessens, and Mycroft’s senses are full of him –

The kiss is sweet at first, Greg’s lips tentative as he closes the gap between them. Mycroft moves just a little closer, his left hand coming up to Greg’s hip, long fingers caressing slightly. Greg makes a muffled _mmm_ noise and pulls Mycroft down, deepening the kiss, swiping the tip of his tongue across Mycroft’s bottom lip.

Mycroft draws a sharp breath in through his nose, and his hand tightens on Greg’s hip –

The sound of a key in the front door surprises them both, and they spring apart, Greg’s eyes wide. He turns to look at the door –

– which flings open, hitting the wall, because two figures follow it in, one short and sandy-haired, the other tall and wearing a long dark coat. They fall against the wall, kissing violently, and John reaches back to kick the door shut behind them, attention drawn for a moment from the mark he seems to be attempting to suck into Sherlock’s neck –

 _“Fuck,_ Mycroft,” says Sherlock, going rigid against the wall.

John slowly removes his hands from Sherlock’s hips, steps back, and clears his throat. He licks his lips. “Evening Greg. Mycroft,” he says, evenly.

“John,” says Greg, eyes crinkled with amusement. “And I assume this is Sherlock?”

Sherlock eyes him angrily. “Your wife is cheating on you.”

“I know,” says Greg, calmly. “We’re getting divorced.”

“Oh,” says Sherlock, slightly nonplussed. “What are you doing here, Fatcroft?” There’s a half-beat of silence while his eyes take in the wine glasses and Mycroft’s flushed cheeks, and then his smug expression slides into one of absolute disgust. “Oh, no, ugh – John, how do you wash the inside of your brain –”

John snorts, then puts his hand over his mouth when Greg glares at him.

Mycroft strides past his brother and John, slamming the door on the way out.

*

“Mycroft. Mycroft!” Greg shouts behind him. Mycroft has made it as far as the end of the street, heading for the train station. _Greg had bare feet,_ he realises. _He probably had to put shoes on._ “Oi, Mycroft! Bloody wait, will you,” calls Greg.

Greg’s hand on his arm brings him to a halt. Slightly breathless from jogging, Greg reaches out and grabs his hand. “Hey you,” he smiles. “Thanks for stopping.”

Mycroft gestures angrily back towards the flat with his other hand. __“_ That_ is the best way Doctor Watson can fathom to help Sherlock with his case, is it?”

Greg squeezes his hand. “Granted, bit of a surprise, but the Holmes men are pretty irresistible, you know.”

“Gregory, this is not a joke. Sherlock assures me that he needs the puzzle, the challenge of these cases in order to stay away from drugs. And Doctor Watson seems to be proving a distraction, rather than providing assistance.”

“Oh come on, that’s not true. They’ve spent the last couple of days in the morgue. Unless John’s a _lot_ kinkier than I think he is, I don’t imagine they were –”

“Gregory! The last time Sherlock was drawn into a – a liaison of this kind, it led to –”

“Mycroft, listen to me! John is _not_ a drug dealer. He’s a doctor, for God’s sake, and a soldier! He knows as much as there is to know about safety and self-discipline. And he _is_ helping Sherlock with the cases, you know he is. Putting his own job on the line to do so, I should add.”

Mycroft stares at him defiantly. Part of him wants to go back to the flat and drag Sherlock kicking and screaming into a taxi.

“And Sherlock’s good for John, too,” continues Greg, taking a step closer and squeezing Mycroft’s hand again. “I’ve not seen him use his cane once in the last three days. Sherlock’s given him purpose again. And before you think it, that’s not just from flirting or – or, well, that –” he grins, gesturing towards the flat. “Because none of the girls he’s flirted with in the past couple of weeks have somehow magically made him forget he needs a walking stick.”

“You make him sound such a stable, faithful partner, Gregory,” says Mycroft, with heavy sarcasm.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” smiles Greg. “But honestly, he’s – I don’t think he’d ever cheat on someone. And anyway, that’s not your business. It’s just not.”

“Sherlock is my brother.”

“Yeah, and an adult. You can love him, and support him, but you can’t _make_ him do what you want. He’s his own man. He’s made a decision, and you can’t undo it for him.”

Mycroft frowns.

“Listen,” says Greg, pulling Mycroft a little closer again. “I had a – a difficult relationship with my Dad, and when he was dying I went to see a therapist, because it was affecting – well, affecting everything, really. And you know the most important thing she said to me? _You’re not a child any more._ You can be _his_ child, just like you’re Sherlock’s brother, but neither of you are defined by that relationship any more. You’re an adult now, and can make your own choices. _He’s_ an adult now, and he has to make his own choices too. You need to choose to protect yourself. You don’t need to – you _can’t_ – protect him. You may have a lot of complicated feelings, but ultimately, the only thing that other people see – and can judge from – is your actions. If you acknowledge with your actions that he’s responsible for himself, he’ll get that you trust him.” Greg’s eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed, and his voice is warm.

For a long moment, Mycroft blinks.

Greg squeezes his hand. “Come on. Let’s go and find a pub. We’ll have a drink – several drinks – and not think about it any more.”

“No,” says Mycroft, firmly. A black taxi is approaching, and he sticks his arm out. It draws up next to them. He climbs in, and draws Greg after him. “Noel Street,” he says to the cab driver. He turns to Greg in the gloom of the back of the cab, heart beating fiercely, cheeks flushed. Slowly, he pulls Greg closer, fingers still tangled together. “Gregory.” His gaze flickers between Greg’s dark eyes and his lips. The pad of Greg’s thumb caresses gentle circles on the back of Mycroft’s hand. And when they kiss, Greg’s lips part to him, soft, eyelashes fluttering against Mycroft’s cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate - from this point on, the story is rated Explicit! If that's not your thing, stop here. Do not read Chapter 5! :) ❤️


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned a few times...this chapter is rated Explicit. If that's not your thing, it's fine to treat the end of Chapter 4 as the end of the story! Basically PWP.
> 
> Thank you SO much for being lovely readers and commenters. I appreciate you guys SO much. xxx

Mycroft’s heart pounds as they climb the stairs to his flat. He shuts the door behind them with a firm _click._

There is a long moment where they watch one another, breaths loud in the narrow half-dark of the hallway.

Mycroft puts his right hand tentatively on Greg’s chest, over his heart, and deliberately, watching his eyes, pushes him back against the wall.

Slowly, he lets his hand move up, slipping his palm around the back of Greg’s neck. And then he kisses him again: unhurried, pressing close, toe-to-toe. Greg moans and pushes up, into the kiss, biting Mycroft’s bottom lip.

Mycroft’s breath catches at the small pleasure-pain, and he grabs Greg’s hand, bringing it up against the wall, pinning it, clasped in his own. At last he buries his nose in Greg’s neck, moving to lick and bite the warm, golden skin beneath his lips.

Greg gasps and arches his neck, baring more skin to Mycroft’s tongue and teeth. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes.”

Mycroft pulls back and kisses him, hard, cupping the back of his head with his long-fingered right hand, letting the soft strands of silver tease his palm. He draws his fingernails very, _very_ gently across Greg’s scalp, and is rewarded with a low moan in the back of Greg’s throat, and another biting, desperate kiss. He’s hard already, cock throbbing against the zip of his trousers.

They stumble, pressed together, along the hall, into Mycroft’s bedroom. The evening light seems bright after the gloom of the hallway, and Greg smiles, hand soft against his cheek. “I can see you now.”

Mycroft turns to kiss Greg's palm. With a hand on his hip, he presses him back against the wall again. Greg runs his thumb along Mycroft’s bottom lip, and Mycroft opens to it, tongue teasing the pad. He watches the flicker of Greg’s eyelids, and feels the needy throb against his thigh.

He goes down on his knees.

Greg gasps as Mycroft smoothes long fingers over the bulge in his jeans. With his other hand, Mycroft pushes Greg’s shirt up to expose flat, golden stomach, and begins kissing just above the waistband. Greg takes the hint and pulls his shirt off over his head. Mycroft tips his eyes up and smiles in thanks.

Slowly, he unbuttons Greg’s jeans, still placing kisses to his hipbones and stomach, then draws the zip down. Greg’s cock pushes out, held by his black boxers. Mycroft kisses the tip through the cotton, drawing another gasp, and a quickly-stilled thrust of Greg’s hips. He inhales the faint scent of him, and hooks his fingers in the waistbands of both jeans and boxers in one go, pulling them down to mid-thigh. He runs his lips softly up the length of his cock, following the thin vein –

“Mycroft,” says Greg breathlessly.

Mycroft looks up, winding the fingers of his right hand with those of Greg’s left, then bringing Greg’s hand to his own head. He tangles Greg’s fingers in his hair. “Yes?” he asks, gaze boring into Greg’s.

Greg grins. “I don’t know. You just – you look really fucking sexy. Thought you should know.”

Mycroft smiles, and slips his lips around the head of Greg’s cock, sucking lightly. Greg groans, letting his head thump back against the wall.

Greg’s fingers play gently through his hair. Mycroft sinks his lips slowly down the length of him, taking in as much as possible. He pins Greg’s hip to the wall with his right hand, and wraps his left around the base of his cock.

Greg’s breathing hitches as Mycroft starts to pull up and sink back down. “Fuck,” he murmurs. Mycroft increases the suction, bobbing his head, then pulls off and strokes Greg with his left hand. “Fucking hell, Mycroft,” says Greg, “you –” but he gets no further, because Mycroft swallows the head of his cock again.

His own erection throbs in his trousers, and he shifts on his knees, trying to find just a little relief. He takes his left hand off Greg’s cock and guides Greg’s right to it instead, encouraging him to touch himself as he sucks him.

He reaches down and, one-handed, fumbles open the button and zip on his own trousers.

“Fuck, yes,” murmurs Greg, as he hears the zip. Mycroft tips his eyes up to watch him, cheeks flushed. Greg’s cock throbs in his mouth. _Oh,_ he thinks, and swirls his tongue around the head. _Interesting._

He pulls his cock out over the top of his boxers, almost groaning with the relief. Making eye contact with Greg, he gives a couple of long, slow tugs on his length. Deliberately, he moans around Greg’s cock, and feels Greg’s hips buck slightly against his restraining right hand. Greg’s hand tightens in his hair. Mycroft moans again.

“Mycroft – you are – fucking – incredible,” pants Greg. Mycroft shows his appreciation by flicking his tongue over the frenulum, and sucking hard before he lifts his head.

He kisses Greg’s stomach and looks up at him. “On this occasion,” he murmurs, “I am not sure if you would wish to –”

“Yes,” says Greg, breathlessly.

“You are s–”

“Yes,” he laughs, letting his head fall back against the wall. “Please.”

Mycroft smiles and stands up, leaning in to kiss him. Greg licks into his mouth, needy and demanding. “Very well.” He crosses to the bedside table and brings lube back with him.

Greg has kicked his boxers and trousers off completely. Mycroft primly kisses the head of his cock as he lubes up his first two fingers. Greg is still holding his cock in his right hand, but his left has fallen back against the wall.

“Put your hand back on my head,” says Mycroft firmly.

Greg grins. “Yes, _Sir.”_ He winds his fingers back into Mycroft’s hair, caressing his scalp.

Mycroft flicks his tongue out to lick around the head, then wraps his lips around it again. Greg gasps and his grip tightens on Mycroft’s hair.

Mycroft’s lubed-up fingers explore and caress Greg’s balls, then move behind them to rub, gently at first, but with increasing pressure, over his perineum. Greg hums an _mmm,_ and Mycroft runs his left hand up his leg, urging him to widen his stance. He looks up to Greg, running his tongue slowly around the head of his cock as he does. “Yes?”

“Yes, God, yes, okay?” says Greg, impatiently, and Mycroft huffs amusement as he swallows Greg down again. Greg caresses the back of his neck softly.

Mycroft slides his hand back, exploring the crease of Greg’s arse, pushing between his cheeks until the pad of his finger finds the hot, tight entrance. He teases the fluttering ring of muscle.

Greg groans and bucks into his mouth, before pushing himself back against the wall. “Sorry,” he pants. “Sorry.”

Mycroft very gently slips the tip of his finger inside.

Greg adjusts his position, and Mycroft watches him, cock throbbing. Pushing his back flat against the wall, Greg spreads his legs, hips tipped forward to allow Mycroft’s fingers as much access possible. “More,” he moans.

Mycroft pushes his finger in, a long, slow slide. He bobs his head on Greg’s cock as he starts to move his finger, crooking it slightly to find –

“Oh god, fuck,” gasps Greg. “Do it again.”

Mycroft ghosts his finger very gently over Greg’s prostate, smiling as it elicits another moan. Greg feels the shape of his lips change, and grins down at him. “Smug,” he says, pulling Mycroft’s hair gently.

Mycroft nods, sucking hard and flicking his tongue over Greg’s frenulum, and Greg makes a rough sound low in his throat that makes Mycroft close his eyes with arousal.

“Two,” pants Greg. “Two fingers.”

Mycroft obliges, pulling cautiously out and pressing back in in tiny, incremental movements. Greg moans as fingertips flutter across his prostate. Slowly, Mycroft starts to build a rhythm, not specifically trying to graze his prostate, but making sure his fingers curl so that he occasionally does.

Greg’s hand tightens on the back of his head, and Mycroft hums his approval, caressing the vein on the underside of his cock with his tongue.

“If you’re going to do three fingers,” gasps Greg after a few minutes, “you should probably do that. Quite quickly. Not sure how much more of this I can – _ha._ Fuck,” he moans.

Mycroft eases his fingers gently out, and pulls off, relaxing his jaw for a few moments. He re-slicks his fingers and moves them back, teasing Greg’s hole with three fingertips, kissing his left thigh, up to his hipbone, then to his wrist and the fingers he has wrapped around his aching, reddened cock. “Ready?” his voice is low.

“Yes,” murmurs Greg, hips bucking just a little as Mycroft takes the head of his cock delicately back between his lips. “Oh fuck – oh god –” he whispers, as Mycroft pushes slowly, oh so slowly, into him with three fingers.

Mycroft had expected that the extra finger might take the edge off Greg’s arousal slightly, but instead he seems almost frozen, unable to decide whether to push forward into Mycroft’s mouth, or backward onto his fingers. Mycroft begins to move his hand with intent.

Greg’s breath hitches on every inhale as Mycroft licks tortuously slowly up the underside of his cock, and begins to massage his frenulum with the flat of his tongue. Stroking his thumb along Mycroft's jawline, he urges him to stop, pulling his head back with increasing urgency.

“Stop, Mycroft,” he laughs breathlessly. “You’re going to have to stop, or it’ll all be over pretty soon.”

Mycroft pulls off and places kisses on his hipbone instead.

“I’m ready,” groans Greg. “Come on, Mycroft. Please.”

Mycroft gently eases his fingers out and stands up.

Greg pulls him in for a hard, needy kiss, grinding his hips up to meet Mycroft’s. His hands fumble at Mycroft’s shirt buttons and then his trousers, pushing each garment roughly to the floor. Kissing Mycroft’s chest and collarbone, he wraps a hand around both their cocks. He grins at the hitch in Mycroft’s breathing, stroking them smoothly together.

He walks Mycroft backwards to the bed, pushes him down onto it, and stands over him. He bends down. “You look like an absolutely fucking gorgeous mess,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes dark. He goes to collect the lube. “Condoms in that drawer?”

Mycroft nods, heart racing. Greg returns to stand over him, then curls in, straddling his lap. Mycroft smiles at the irrepressible grin on his face.

Greg kisses him slowly, then moves away, pressing kisses under Mycroft’s jaw, to his ear. He nibbles at his earlobe, gasping as Mycroft ghosts his fingernails over the flesh of his arse. He chuckles into Mycroft’s ear, and bites a little harder.

Kissing Mycroft’s neck, he pops open the lubricant. With a generous amount in the palm of his hand, he lines up their hips and starts to stroke them together, tortuously slowly. He licks at Mycroft’s collarbone, then curls over to kiss his nipple. When Mycroft catches his breath at the sensation, Greg hums and licks hard. “Yes?”

“Mmmm,” moans Mycroft. Greg bites gently and soothes with a lick. Mycroft grasps his arsecheeks and pulls him forward, pushing their cocks harder through the circle of Greg’s fingers.

“Impatient,” murmurs Greg, running the tip of his tongue along Mycroft’s collarbone. He finds a soft place beneath the bone, and nips at it. “Such pale skin,” he says, voice low. He starts to suck at the same place, alternately biting and soothing it with his tongue. Mycroft groans. “You like that?” growls Greg. “Because I can mark you all over.”

“Gregory,” murmurs Mycroft, eyes half-lidded. “You are torturing me.” He catches his breath again as Greg’s hand pumps along their lengths.

Greg leans over him, planting a gentle kiss on his lips. “Did you think you’re the only one who can tease?” he whispers. “Silly Mycroft.”

He laughs as Mycroft narrows his eyes at him.

“In fact,” smiles Greg, kneeling up and reaching for a condom, “you never know, I might be able to make you beg by the time we’re done.” He rolls the condom slowly down Mycroft’s length, and slicks him generously with lube.

“So angelic-looking, Gregory,” says Mycroft. He gasps as Greg takes hold of the base of his cock, and starts to impale himself slowly on it, just millimetres at a time. “Until you open your mouth.”

Greg laughs, breathlessly. “Angelic? Really?” He leans in, moaning at the stretch as he inches himself down.

With his left hand, Mycroft slowly strokes Greg’s cock. “Yes,” he murmurs, suppressing a moan. His toes are curling. “Big brown eyes, and such a sweet-looking smile.”

Greg chuckles, groaning as he pushes the last inch, until Mycroft is fully seated. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck,”_  he mutters through gritted teeth.

Mycroft props himself up on one elbow. “Greg? Okay?” He strokes his right hand gently up Greg’s thigh.

Greg smiles up at him through his eyelashes. “Stop worrying,” he says, taking a deep breath. “It’s just been a really long fucking time.”

Mycroft smiles softly back at him, and there’s a beat of quiet. Mycroft’s heart turns over in his chest. Greg leans forward, bending down for a slow, shredding kiss.

Mycroft is almost shaking with the need to move, to push upwards into heat and tightness, but he strokes his palm gently up Greg’s back.

Greg wiggles his hips, very slightly, and pulls up just an inch or so, then sinks down again. Mycroft can’t hold back a groan.

“Good?” murmurs Greg, running one finger down the centre of Mycroft’s chest.

“Gregory,” Mycroft groans. “You know it is.”

“Tight?” asks Greg, voice husky. He shifts his hips, then pulls up, further this time. Mycroft sweeps his right hand down and takes hold of Greg’s hip.

“Very.”

“You want me to move, don’t you?”

Mycroft bites his bottom lip, both resenting and loving the tease. “You are infuriating.”

“Ohhh,” groans Greg, pushing himself back down onto Mycroft’s cock. “You’re so _very_  polite, Mycroft.” He lifts up again, and holds still. “I wonder what it’ll take to make you swear.” He makes as if to move, then freezes again, dark eyes sparkling.

Mycroft digs his fingernails into Greg’s hip, and Greg moans, low in his throat. He pushes back down, hard, driving Mycroft inside him, even if only by a couple of inches.

“You like being punished for your bad behaviour, Gregory,” murmurs Mycroft. “Don’t you?” His left hand strokes Greg’s cock slowly, the circle of his fingers too loose to provide real relief.

Greg laughs, low and rough, and bends down to lick Mycroft’s neck. “Oh fuck – god – fuck,” he groans suddenly, and pushes himself back up. Mycroft can’t help smiling at him, and Greg giggles. _“That_  felt far too good.”

Mycroft squeezes his hipbone. “Good to know.”

Quickly, Greg pulls up just an inch, and back down again.

Mycroft gasps and groans. “Gregory…”

“Mmm?” Greg makes his eyes wide and innocent. “Yes, Mycroft?”

“Don’t give me that,” murmurs Mycroft, digging his fingernails into Greg’s buttock.

Greg hisses and shoots him a look from beneath lowered eyelids. His cheeks are flushed, silver hair tousled. Mycroft wants, suddenly and overwhelmingly, to kiss him. He props himself up on his right elbow, and brings his left hand up to Greg’s neck, then to his cheek, stroking his thumb along the line of his cheekbone. He pulls him down.

The kiss is slow, Mycroft teasing along the seam of Greg’s lips with the tip of his tongue. Greg’s hands flow up over his sides, his chest, his shoulders, until he is cupping Mycroft’s face. Greg’s tongue swipes Mycroft’s, nipping at his bottom lip.

Mycroft smiles a little into the kiss, and feels it returned.

Greg starts to move in earnest on Mycroft’s cock, raising and lowering himself slowly, agonisingly slowly, but in smooth, relentless movements that make Mycroft moan into the kiss.

“Lean forward more,” he orders breathlessly, teasing his fingers down Greg’s side. “I want you to feel good.”

Greg chuckles, and kisses the side of his mouth. “Believe me, I feel good,” he says, on an exhale. “But I just about have control of myself for now, and that would change pretty quickly if I –” he leans forward, experimentally, and moans, fading to a laugh. He rests his forehead against Mycroft’s. “Fuck. See?”

Mycroft laughs quietly. “I do.” He pushes against Greg’s forehead, shifting them into a kiss. “But I __want__ to make you lose control, Gregory.” Greg’s eyelids flutter with his words.

With a sweet smile, Greg pushes Mycroft flat on his back and leans forward over him, gasping. He runs his hands up Mycroft’s sides and the underside of his arms, pinning them to the bed above his head. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs, running his nose along the line of Mycroft’s arm, then burying his lips at the base of his neck.

Mycroft arches his back and neck, testing the strength of Greg’s hold on his arms. He groans as Greg nips gently at the soft skin of his neck, then soothes with a swirl of his tongue.

Unable to resist any longer, he shifts a little and begins to thrust up as Greg pushes down. Caught by surprise, Greg’s eyes close and he clamps down on a moan. “Fuck, Mycroft –” he looks down at him, laughing a little. He wriggles his hips and bites Mycroft’s bottom lip. His lips part and he takes several gasping breaths as Mycroft thrusts, curling his hips to hit his prostate.

Mycroft’s legs feel shaky. He’s at the edge of his control, orgasm stealing ever closer. With a quick movement, he breaks Greg’s hold on his arms and moves his right hand back down to Greg’s hip, gripping it, stroking his long fingers across his buttock. The action makes Greg shiver, and the smooth movement of his hips stutters for a moment. Mycroft smiles up at him.

Greg chuckles. “Pushing me.”

“Me?” Mycroft’s eyes are wide, innocent.

“Yes, you,” murmurs Greg into a kiss, voice low and rough.

“Never.” Mycroft thrusts up again, and Greg groans, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft caresses his silver hair, then runs his hand down to Greg’s cock. He starts to stroke him, letting the rhythm of his thrusts push him through the tight circle of his grip.

Greg’s head snaps up, eyes dark and wide. “Fuck, fuck,” he murmurs, biting his lip. “’S’too much. You’re going to make me –”

“Good.” Mycroft’s voice is silky. He makes deliberate eye contact. He knows he can’t last much longer, shaking with need, heat pooling at the base of his spine, every movement pushing him closer. “You look so good, Gregory, fucking yourself on my cock –”

Greg arches his spine and gasps, and Mycroft can feel it happen; he can’t suppress a moan as Greg’s eyes fall closed and he starts to come, spurting over Mycroft’s hand and stomach.

Mycroft thrusts a few more times as Greg groans and shivers, clenching around him, and then Mycroft can hold back no longer. “Gregory,” he whispers, voice jagged as he surrenders to sensation.

When he opens his eyes, Greg is curled over him, forehead pressed against his ear and lips against his neck. His breathing is ragged, uneven. Mycroft wipes his left hand on the duvet cover and runs his palms slowly up and down Greg’s sides and back, long, smooth, gentle motions. “Okay?” he murmurs, after a minute.

“Mmm,” hums Greg, lips pressing a lazy half-kiss to Mycroft’s neck. He doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, and Mycroft can’t help a slight huff of amusement.

“Are you sure?”

“Mmm.” Greg strokes his chest. “I said ‘mmm’,” he mumbles, mock-petulantly. “What else d’you want fr’me?” Mycroft can feel him smiling against his neck. “’M shagged out. Leave me alone.”

“No luck, I am afraid,” says Mycroft, shifting his hips slightly. Greg’s breath catches and he makes a grumpy noise in his throat. Mycroft laughs, but moves both hands down to Greg’s hips and gently digs his fingernails in.

Grumbling, Greg starts to ease slowly, tentatively off him. Mycroft grips the base of the condom and goes to clean up in the bathroom.

When he comes back, Greg is sprawled across the bed, heavy eyelids languid. He holds out his arms to Mycroft, who smiles and curls around him. They kiss, long and slow, satisfied murmurs of appreciation low in their throats.

“Gorgeous,” murmurs Greg, after a while. “Thank you.”

Mycroft shakes his head, just a little. “You were –” he finds himself unexpectedly full of emotion, and kisses Greg’s chest instead of finishing his sentence.

Greg grins at him. “You know what I realised?”

“Mmm?”

“We left our dinner _and_ our wine to John and Sherlock.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Good grief.”

Greg snorts. “’M a bit worried they won’t’ve, er –” he glances at Mycroft and laughs. “Um –  _realised_ that there are potatoes still in the oven,” he says.

Mycroft looks slightly revolted. “Surely –”

“They’re probably – busy,” says Greg, snorting and protesting as Mycroft pokes long fingers into his side.

“Yes thank you for that appalling mental image,” says Mycroft. “Perhaps you should text John. It would be a shame if your new flat were to burn down on only your second day of residence.”

Greg laughs. “Probably should.” He sits up and starts to pulls on his boxers. “What’re we going to have for dinner?”

“I shall investigate the fridge while you text John.”

The cool fridge air raises goosebumps on Mycroft’s still-flushed skin. He’s pulled on boxers and trousers, but no shirt. After a moment, strong, tanned arms wrap around his chest and stomach, Greg’s lips soft against his shoulderblade. He relaxes back into the embrace.

“Ooh, you’ve got bread,” says Greg. “Let’s just have some toast and a cup of tea.” Mycroft can feel him smile.

“Is that all you want?”

“Yeah. It really, really is,” chuckles Greg. “Have you got butter?”

“In the dish over there.”

“Perfect. Buttered toast, a cuppa, and we can curl up on the sofa and watch something crap.” He kisses Mycroft’s back again, a hint of a scrape of teeth. “Until we’re ready to go again.”

Mycroft smiles, reaching for the bread. “Ah, I see.” He runs long fingers along Greg’s arm, to cover his hand on his chest. “You have further dastardly intentions, Mr Lestrade.”

“Very dastardly,” murmurs Greg, stroking Mycroft’s stomach. “Absolutely devilish.”

“Well," says Mycroft silkily, turning around in Greg’s arms. He pushes the fridge door closed behind him. “I look forward to learning more.” He kisses Greg and hesitates. “What you said about – about my actions in relation to Sherlock,” he adds tentatively. “You were –” He takes a breath. “I truly value your advice. Thank you.”

Greg shrugs and tightens his arms around him. “’S’nothing.”

“That is not true, Gregory,” says Mycroft, glancing up to him.

Greg smiles gently at him. “Then you’re welcome.”

Mycroft gives a short nod. “You will have to let go of me now, if I am to make toast.”

“Nah, that’s not the deal,” grins Greg, kissing his chin. “Limpet, me.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and pokes him in the ribs. “You are impossible.”

“Nah, darlin’, you’re the impossible one –”

“'Darling’?”

“Mikey?”

“Oh dear God…”


End file.
